


Looks Like You Just Might

by ShinigamiAnateria (ShinigamiKnox)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Demisexual Sherlock, Fluff, Friends to cuddle buddies to lovers, It's Sherlock--what do you expect?, Kind of mutual?, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Not series 3 compliant, Past and future drug problems, Past relationship with Victor Trevor, Slow Burn, Some sensory overload, Trans Man Sherlock, Written in time with episodes, pre and post reichenbach fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinigamiKnox/pseuds/ShinigamiAnateria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows the story-line of the series with little changes with demisexual, trans Sherlock and mostly heterosexual John. It didn't take long for them to become friends which led to platonic cuddling, a few bumps in the road, then lovers.</p><p>Un-beta'd and not brit-picked</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Sherlock piece and as much as I tried to use British terms when applicable, but I am American and I tend to make mistakes. Please, absolutely, feel free to point any out. This is just my spin on the canon storyline if Sherlock happened to be demisexual and trans with a lot of cuddling between him and his flatmate, John Watson.

When it came to relationships, Sherlock didn’t see the point. They were merely unnecessary distractions that provided no substance. Trivial drivel that he didn’t want to take part in. If that meant he was labelled as a ‘freak,’ then so be it. Just another thing to add to that list.

On the top of that list, was the big, glaring word ‘transgender.’ His family had been fine with it. “What makes you happy, I suppose,” had been Mycroft’s words, echoed by his parents. Those around him weren’t exactly thrilled, however, Sherlock couldn’t tell if they were upset from his lack of social graces or otherwise.

‘Callous, rude, insensitive,’ were just a few adjectives that were commonly used to describe him. He wasn’t concerned with what others thought.

‘Heartless,’ was added to the list around age fourteen and persisted well into his university years. He turned down advances of both sexes. They weren’t interesting enough and he had more important things to do.

That was, until Victor Trevor came into his life. It wasn’t so much that he was attractive, rather it was Sherlock didn’t feel as annoyed by his presence than his other peers. He didn’t mind slowing down for him occasionally to explain his logic. It surprised everyone, including Victor, that Sherlock had allowed a relationship of sorts to form.

When he found himself in Victor’s bed not even a month after beginning to date the man, he was almost appalled with himself. Yet, he went through with it, another experiment, he claimed to himself. This time, he’d be testing his sexuality instead of his body’s effects to alcohol consumption.

It was, by far, the worst couple of weeks Sherlock had ever had. The sex was terrible, the feeling he got afterwards was absolutely revolting, and it was, by no means, worth it. His partner was fairly attractive. He knew Sherlock was transgender. He knew to ask before he did certain things. Still, when Sherlock pointed out that he had a very limited sexual experience, Victor took it upon himself to show Sherlock how to touch Victor, as he was more comfortable with his own body. Sherlock thought it was fine.

After his partner had climaxed, he was left on his own. His partner had said once they were finished, they had no desire to do anything else. “But you’re free to do as you please,” he’d said. Sherlock, uncomfortable with the notion that it wasn’t his bed, left unsatisfied and mildly sexually frustrated.

Honestly, he thought, it was a vile experience. The kissing was sloppy, at best, too much saliva, too much tongue. There was too much groping, too much touching. He felt nauseous and his head hurt. Honestly, how did anyone enjoy said experience? Why did humans put sex above everything else? Why would humans participate in such an act outside of reproduction? Sherlock truly didn’t see the appeal.

He tried just a couple more times. “It’ll get better,” he told himself. For it to be a valid experiment, it needed repeating, yes?

It didn’t get better. In fact, it got worse. His partner pushed for more, things he wasn’t comfortable with. Nothing to do with his own body, mind you. He did it, though, to please his partner, as uncomfortable as it made him. His body as just transport, right?

Each time, he left his partner’s room both unsatisfied and frustrated. He felt...odd. It wasn’t a good feeling, not in the least. He wanted to be alone, not that that was a new feeling, but it was borderline necessity. He never did like to be around large groups, but he felt, leaving that room, that he couldn’t even handle the presence of one other person.

Four times in total Sherlock tried before abandoning the experiment completely. He couldn’t take it again. He couldn’t take laying in that bed with his partner, sweaty, bored, and uncomfortable.

“Hey, that’s fine,” Victor had said with a hand on his knee. Even that subtle touch was making Sherlock uncomfortable and skittish. “If you don’t want to, then we won’t.”

Despite his acceptance, their relationship didn’t last long. He grew tired of Sherlock’s attitude and Sherlock grew tired of him and his distractions.

That had been his one and only sexual experience. Fifteen years later, he found himself at 221 B Baker street with one Doctor John Watson. Sherlock had had a few fleeting relationships since then, but none of them lasted more than a week. Trivial.

By this time in Sherlock’s life, he was comfortable and embraced both his asexuality and gender identity quite easily. He didn’t feel the need to share that information with anyone else, of course. It was his business how he went about injections, binding, and packing. It was his business, alone, not to feel any sort of sexual attraction to others.

So, when John asked about his personal life, Sherlock had made the comment about being married to his work. He enjoyed the work he did. He enjoyed the occasional challenge. It was the closest thing, he realized, to getting the satisfaction that others usually got from sex or other intimacy. It was a system that worked.

Still, John's quick comment, “It’s all fine,” had given Sherlock a comfort he hadn’t realized he wanted.

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock had responded.

The comment about being unattached was what prompted Sherlock’s ‘married to my work’ comment.

“I’m not asking, I’m just saying. It’s all fine.”

“Oh. Okay.” Sherlock nodded once before he added a genuine, “Thank you.”

It was so easy to get along with John. Something about his laidback but attentive attitude appealed to Sherlock, for some reason he couldn’t seem to figure out. John put up with his blunt way of speaking to people. He even went so far as to compliment his observations! It felt natural.

But John, John gave him something to do! He still had bouts of ‘boring!’ but with John around, it was somewhat less tedious. Within hours of meeting him, they were bounding off down a dark avenue after a killer and Sherlock couldn’t have been more thrilled.

On their run back to what would become ‘home,’ Sherlock took a moment to text Angelo back at the restaurant with a slight smirk.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John had said once they were safely behind the closed door.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock found himself saying with a laugh. John, too, began laughing, high off endorphins and adrenaline.

“What are we doing now?”

“Just passing time. Proving a point.” And with that, there was a knock at the door.

 

Later that same evening, John learned another interesting titbit about his flatmate with the police sniffing around his flat for drugs. It had been a terrible habit he’d picked up after Victor. It wasn’t so much him driving him to do drugs, no, it was Sherlock’s own choice. Something that distracted him from overthinking and overanalysing certain thoughts.

John, the good man he was, tried vouching for a man he just met hours beforehand. The effort was valiant, however, unwarranted.

Curiosity won in the end with that particular case, even with the police sniffing around his apartment. Why was this cabbie so sure he could make Sherlock kill himself with mere words? What words could be powerful enough to make the logical, clearly not suicidal, Sherlock Holmes actually want to die? Certainly, he had a rocky past and a history of drug abuse, but what sequence of words could take him out of the content place he was currently and bring him to that state. Oh, that would be a game Sherlock wanted to participate in.

Someone else had other plans for Sherlock, however. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to test his hypothesis when someone had shot the cab driver through the chest, narrowly missing Sherlock. Judging quickly by the trajectory, the shooter had shot across the alley and into the room upon witnessing Sherlock in some sort of danger. The person was gone by the time Sherlock had checked the window.

Sitting in the back of the ambulance with a shock blanket over his shoulders, Sherlock began listing off the traits of the unknown shooter to Detective Inspector Lestrade. However, Sherlock, for once, was slow on the uptake upon settling his gaze on John Watson, his potential flatmate, on the site of the street.

“Never you mind. It’s just the shock talking. I’m in shock, I’ve a blanket. I just caught you a serial killer,” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he made his way towards John. Out of earshot of Lestrade, Sherlock actually praised the man, “Good shot.”

“Yes, yes. Must have been, through that window,” John thought he was being subtle. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

“Well, you’d know. Did you get the gun powder from your fingers? Don’t think you’d serve time, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?” They began walking down the street.

“Yes, of course I’m all right,” John said dismissively.

“Well, you have just killed a man,” Sherlock felt the need to point out. Perhaps it hadn’t sunken in just yet.

“Yes. But he wasn’t a very nice man; he was trying to kill you.” Sherlock looked over at him. John had met him and still hadn’t hesitated to kill a guy that was attempting to poison Sherlock. He couldn’t say that about very many people. Hell, he wasn’t even sure Lestrade would have done the same without _some_ hesitation.

It was nice to have something to laugh about again. This didn’t happen very often, Sherlock thought, as they continued walking.

“Can’t be giggling at a crime scene,” John said sheepishly.

“You _are_ the one who killed him.”

“Keep your voice down!” John said between fits of stifled laughter.

“It’s just nerves,” Sherlock announced to no one in particular as he discarded the mundane blanket.

“Would you have actually taken the pill?” John's voice took on a sobering quality.

“I was bidding my time, knew you’d come up.” It was a possibility, anyhow. It wasn’t something Sherlock was counting on, but coming down to it, he might have. However, the thought barely crossed his mind after the cabbie had died to just swallow the bloody pill. John didn’t need to know that, though. Not important.

“Dinner?” Sherlock offered.

“Starving.”

Sherlock smiled and began leading him to a nearby Chinese place. It was in the down time between that case and the next interesting one that Sherlock and John got rather acquainted with each other’s’ living habits. John discovered Sherlock was usually quite lazy if there was no positive incentive for him doing any chores. For that reason, John usually did the dishes, cleaning up, and shopping while Sherlock focused on the experiments that may or may not have to do with a case.

But John began to expect most of Sherlock’s actions and gave up trying to see the logic behind his actions. It wasn’t uncommon for Sherlock to look over his shoulder at his laptop when in the common room or burst into his room during the day. At night, he at least had the decency to avoid such behaviors after John threw his pillow at him for waking him up.

John had a tendency to avoid Sherlock’s room. It wasn’t like him to go prying out of curiosity, unlike Sherlock. They didn’t exactly talk about themselves very often, except for what Sherlock would bring up on occasion. Sometimes, it was just a random question for John about some mundane part of his past. Usually the questions didn’t faze him; it was just another quirk he had come to accept while living with Sherlock.

Sherlock, obnoxious and manipulative, knew exactly how to conduct himself at times, John noticed. Sherlock usually didn’t care enough to act ‘appropriately’ (as John called it) with those around him, but John provided a slight buffer at times so he didn’t have to. It was yet another advantage of having John around to Sherlock.

At least, it was, until John decided Sarah’s presence was more enjoyable than his. Truthfully, he could see why. He wasn’t oblivious to sex or John's desire for sex. He may not understand it from a personal standpoint, but he understood the biological imperative John was seemingly following. That didn’t mean Sherlock was pleased about it.

John, who was so easily entertained by simple things, could surely see the appeal of a challenging case over some woman. Still, John came back to him and their flat so Sherlock couldn’t be too upset.

 

Sherlock had been putting his focus towards finding this Moriarty character the cabbie had mentioned to really worry about John's love life. After all, he had meant every word of the ‘married to my work’ comment.

If Sherlock hadn’t put it as blunt as that, John surely would have deduced it from his actions when the work he liked became a game he was keen on winning. Chasing after people certainly got the adrenaline running. Having John right there with him, made it even better than it had been previously.

Sarah quickly realized the danger of staying in John's life as a romantic partner. Sherlock couldn’t help but find himself relieved for some reason. He no longer had to fight for John's attention, not that he had to compete all that much. John made it easy. It wasn’t long before it was back to just them against the world.

In the quiet few months between exciting cases, their home life was rather domestic, more so than Sherlock was used to. Even John had to admit that despite Sherlock being a terrible flatmate, it was probably the coziest place he’d ever called ‘home.’

About three months into this arrangement, after a particularly long and hard chase through the streets of London, Sherlock found himself with John's mouth on his. It had been _years_ since he’d last kissed anyone and it was sort of sprung on him, so it was a bit awkward at first. Thoughts flew through his head, excuses as to why John would think this was okay, the first being he was probably so sleep deprived that the adrenaline working its way through his system triggered a reaction of sort to release the remaining energy.

Clasping a hand to the back of John's—warm, comforting, home—neck, Sherlock just let it happen. It was a dark alley, no one to see John's lapse and Sherlock did enjoy the warmth it gave him.

It was about half a minute before John let him go. “Sorry—“ he started.

“It’s fine. It’s all fine,” Sherlock murmured simultaneously.

“I don’t—“

“I know.”

“I’m not—“

“John, I know,” Sherlock insisted. “We’re just not—“

“Yes,” John agreed without listening to the rest of Sherlock’s sentence. “Talking about it, no. It was just—“

“Adrenaline. The case. The excitement.” Sherlock nodded in understanding.

“I think I’m going to walk back to Baker Street,” John pressed his back against the brick wall next to Sherlock.

“Do you want me—“

“No. Take a cab, like you do.”

“It’s a long walk.”

“Great.” John looked over at him expectantly. Sherlock got the idea and left John alone in the alleyway.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time John got in, Sherlock was back to work on several of the experiments lying across the table. He didn’t bother looking up and John didn’t bother stopping on his way to his bedroom. It was quite clear John was still in a bad place about it, but Sherlock truly didn’t find it in his place to concern himself with it. There would be nothing he could do to help John, therefore not his concern.

Still, the kiss had been nice and Sherlock wouldn’t mind being able to indulge in such a small comfort occasionally. A kiss between friends, really. He may have prided himself on being a sociopath, but John had worked his way under his skin, somehow.

The next few days were quiet. John had pulled one of Sherlock’s stunts and refused to discuss anything unless Sherlock brought it up first. It was about a week before Sherlock grew tired of the constant nervousness John had.

“You do realize it’s ridiculous to still be upset over something that happened a week ago,” Sherlock said as John, once again, pulled a chair further away from him in the kitchen.

“I’m not upset. Why would you think I’m upset?” That tone, the look, the way his fingers fidgeted, all the signs Sherlock refused to inform John he had been doing.

“Yes, you are. It’s silly. Meant nothing, won’t happen again. Your fragile sexuality is intact.” It wasn’t so much John's preference to women that annoyed him, it was John's outwardly display of such a trait. His panicked expressions whenever someone even hinted at a different sexuality. It was wasted time for John to argue and completely pointless. Changing people’s opinions wouldn’t change his sexuality.

“Fragile sexua....” John muttered in disbelief. “I am straight.”

“Yes, John. I know. Mrs. Hudson knows. Lestrade knows. Everyone knows.” There was a small voice in Sherlock’s head insisting John had, in fact, kissed a woman when he kissed Sherlock merely due to his XX chromosome configuration. Sherlock quickly pushed that useless thought aside; he didn’t need dysphoria adding to anything. “You said it was all fine, and it is. So stop being ridiculous.”

John hadn’t been too upset. He did stay and finish his tea before making his way to his bedroom for the night. The next day, John seemed to act more relaxed around Sherlock again. As time went on, Sherlock found John right next to him, attempting to take care of his flatmate. If not for John, Sherlock would go days without eating or sleep only to pass out on the sofa or, occasionally, on a kitchen chair.

It started, at first, with a throw being pulled over his frame. Soon, it became Sherlock waking up in his own bed with no recollection on how he managed to make it up the stairs and into his room. On more than one occasion, he thought he had dreamt of lips brushing against his own very briefly. It was oddly comforting.

This Moriarty character decided to make an entrance with an arousing line of games. Pleased with something to do, Sherlock threw himself into solving each of these puzzles Moriarty thankfully provided. It was something new, something exciting and Sherlock couldn’t be happier.

John had found himself barely able to keep up at times, but followed nonetheless. Between Sherlock and Mycroft pulling at his attention, he found himself rather torn. Two different cases, Sherlock’s desire to have John with him, John managed pretty well, he thought. Of course, Sherlock kept an eye on him from the beginning, but only when the cases intersected did he really decide to reveal that to John.

Moriarty gave him something to look forward to solving, at least, until he had threatened John's life. Walking into a trap that Sherlock wasn’t sure they’d get out of, he was rather calm. Logically, it would do nothing to let fear take hold of him. Fear didn’t usually help, not in the face of a fearless man like Moriarty. 

Upon Moriarty’s exit in the pool, Sherlock couldn’t remove the jacket from John fast enough. Not only had John tried to sacrifice himself for Sherlock, he had remained calmer than ever in the face of Moriarty. Sherlock was quite impressed, even with knowing quite well of John's nerves of steel.

It wasn’t until after Sherlock had removed the explosive material from his body that John all but collapsed against a stall. With a nervous chuckle, he joked, “It’s good no one saw that. People would talk about you ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool.”

Sherlock did give him a bit of a smile, mainly from the relief that they were fine. “They would do little else.” When the red dot reappeared on John's chest, Sherlock’s relief disappeared; Moriarty had decided to kill them. Well, Sherlock thought, if he was going to die, then he’d be taking Moriarty with him. With a quick look over to John, a silent apology, a quiet agreement that it had been good, these last few months.

Something about the action or Sherlock’s willingness to take the entire building down must have gotten through to Moriarty. He wasn’t done with his game yet, not nearly. So, he left, leaving John and Sherlock in peace. Sherlock had barely waited until Moriarty was out of the pool area before crashing to his knees in front of John. This time, it wasn’t John who initiated the kiss, rather he was the one pressed against the edge of the stall, along for the ride. Sherlock had himself convinced it was primarily the relief that propelled him forward to John. His hand, once again, clasped against the back of John's neck for the duration of the kiss before sliding down into a tight hug. John's arms were hesitant but wrapped around Sherlock’s torso rather tightly.

Leaning back before he truly wanted to, Sherlock pressed a quick, soft kiss to John's lips. “I’m...” Sherlock found himself at the rare point of being speechless. Did he apologize? Did he excuse himself?

“It’s fine,” John said, still sort of breathless from the last few minutes. “Oh, it’s fine.” He began to push himself up and away from the stall, pushing Sherlock away. “Home. Let’s go home.” John reached back and brushed his hand against Sherlock’s before he thought better of it. The ride home in the back of the cab was quiet but Sherlock could see John's trembling. He wanted to reach over to comfort him in some way. People held others’ hands to do that, right?

In the end, they made it to Baker Street without Sherlock reaching out to John. Once behind the closed doors to their flat, John dropped down heavily on the sofa.

“I don’t know about you, but I won’t be able to sleep. Then again, you rarely sleep,” John thought aloud.

“I’m surprised. You haven’t slept more than a couple hours the last few days.”

“Too wired.”

Sherlock nodded as if he understood. “Well, then, are you staying on the sofa all night?”

“I might.”

“Do you want me to sit with you?” Sherlock offered. The words came out strained and awkward sounding, even to him.

“It’s your choice.”

He removed his jacket and set it over the arm of the sofa before lowering himself down with some space between himself and John. 

“You’re not...upset about—“

“No. My sexuality isn’t _that_ fragile.”

Sherlock looked over at him. His arms were crossed but he didn’t appear uncomfortable in any way. “I’m not particularly interested in a relationship,” he said without looking away.

“I didn’t figure _you_ would be.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re you, Sherlock. You’re above all of that, as you are inclined to remind everybody.”

“I suppose. I do still seem to react to close proximity to certain individuals.” He almost sounded surprised at the discovery himself.

“By react, you mean...”

“I feel comforted. Safe, even. It’s a natural human response.”

“No, I know,” John said with a glance over towards Sherlock. “I just didn’t expect you to admit to being human.” It sounded like a disguised joke but John wasn’t really smiling. There was a long pause before John dropped the arms across his chest to his sides. “Come here,” he said reluctantly.

“I am here.”

“Over here,” John clarified as he patted the spot next to him. Sherlock slowly moved closer.

“Why?”

“An experiment.” John pulled him closer with an arm around Sherlock’s back.

“For what purpose?”

“Scientific enquiry. Here.” A gentle hand guided Sherlock’s head onto John's shoulder. John's other arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock until he was tightly embraced around his chest by John.

“What is your hypothesis?” Sherlock let his eyes close and John’s scent and soft jumper dominate his senses.

“You will be comforted by physical contact.”

“I do believe your hypothesis is correct.” Sherlock sighed quietly before shifting to make the position more comfortable.

It was about a minute before John spoke again. “You can lie down. If you’d like. It may be more…pleasant.”

Sherlock hummed as he shifted on the sofa to put his back to John’s side with his head rested back against John’s shoulder. He stretched his long legs over the remaining length of the sofa.

“That’s not exactly what I meant, but that works. Sit up for a moment.” John gave a slight nudge so he could grab the television remote from the table. Once he settled back against the sofa, Sherlock dropped back onto John’s lap. He was quiet until John noticed he had fallen asleep.

It wasn’t the start of a romantic relationship of sorts. Sherlock still noticed John trying to get dates with women and, for the most part, it was a fine arrangement. John got what he needed from these women while Sherlock got John for cases and the occasional cuddle late at night.

Mornings became a nice routine. John would get up early if he had work, shower, dress, then come downstairs to Sherlock, who was usually still awake. The best of mornings, John would stroke Sherlock’s hair and give him a quick kiss. It was more than enough for Sherlock; it was the ideal set-up.


	3. Chapter 3

John was consistent with updating his blog with each case Sherlock and him had taken part in, whether it was solved or not. Most of them were solved, however, as most of the cases were rather mundane and straightforward.

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s methods aren’t always in line with those encouraged by Scotland Yard and despite Lestrade giving Sherlock quite a wide berth, he stepped over the legal lines one too many times. Once again, Lestrade was forced to disguise looking through Sherlock’s flat for evidence he was withholding by claiming it was another drugs bust.

John knew of most of the places Sherlock hid cigarettes and his harder substances. He tried to clear them out occasionally, or at least enough that Sherlock wouldn’t overdose. He tried to make it so Sherlock wouldn’t have to even result turning to these substances, since Sherlock refused to discard them completely. He said it was a comfort, a security blanket. John kept trying to show Sherlock otherwise, but all he could do was be there for Sherlock when he came down sometimes. 

It didn’t matter how many times John cleared those places out, Sherlock would always have a way to replace them. If John kept at it, Sherlock would play the petulant child and move his hiding spots and John would have to go searching again. It was better this way.

Lestrade and his team would clear the flat of any drug substance but it wouldn’t result in Sherlock’s arrest. They were only searching for the small locket that should have been included with the evidence.

John was helping Lestrade clear out Sherlock’s bedroom, his inner sanctum, as John occasionally referred to. He didn’t like the idea of going through Sherlock’s personal belongings, however, as Lestrade said, it would either be the two people he trusted most or someone like Anderson. John all but leapt out of his chair to keep Anderson clear of Sherlock’s bedroom.

Sherlock had gone out on a lead or to follow up on a personal business, leaving the team to work in peace for at least an hour. They would be done in half that time.

Lestrade dumped the first drawer in Sherlock’s chest of drawers on flat surface of his immaculate bed. Pants and what appeared to be sports bras fell out onto the grey sheets. Lestrade didn’t even pause, but John stopped searching the frame of Sherlock’s bed to pick one up tentatively. They were much less breathable than the average sports bra. If John hadn’t had the experience of treating a wound of a young transgender man not too long ago, he would have had no idea why Sherlock would have such a garment.

He dropped the fabric quickly and averted his gaze on his flatmate’s undergarments. It wasn’t until John resumed checking Sherlock’s bedframe did he say anything. “You didn’t know?”

“No. Doesn’t change anything.” John meant it. “I’ll let him tell me in his own time.” John deposited the small locket by Lestrade’s hand.

“Fantastic. Help me clean this up.”

 

Sherlock returned home an hour after Lestrade and his team left. With a roll of his eyes, he dropped onto the sofa. “They found it.”

“Yes.”

“Did you help them to do so?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

“Did you find what you were searching for?” John closed his laptop and set it aside.

“In a way.” He didn’t go into any more detail.

“Did you want takeaway?”

“Not particularly. But if you’d like, please do.”

“Not all that hungry either. Actually, I think I’m going to head up to bed.”

“Okay.” John pushed himself up, padded over to the sofa to place a quick kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, then made his way up the stairs to his room.

It wasn’t as if John was purposefully avoiding Sherlock, but the way his schedule worked out at the clinic and the cases Sherlock picked up on, there just wasn’t much time for their usual time spent together. John didn’t want to tell Sherlock that he knew, but he didn’t like hiding anything from Sherlock, not like this. It truly didn’t matter to John, except he knew Sherlock had a tendency not to care for himself, especially when a case distracted him.

It was one thing to know Sherlock put off eating and sleeping, but another to think about him forgetting injections or sleeping in his binder. He wasn’t exactly hard to get off the sofa and into his bed, but John couldn’t exactly strip him down without any preamble. He couldn’t even ask Sherlock to change into his pyjamas without letting Sherlock know that he knew. It became frustrating.

John, at times, tried giving subtle clues, but really didn’t want to outright say anything. However, he realized Sherlock wasn’t going to pick up on these hints. For someone so observant, he was rather oblivious when it came to certain topics.

It was a month before John finally had the opportunity to really say anything. “Sherlock, will you get your arse in bed?” John wasn’t exactly gentle pulling Sherlock up from the sofa.

“Don’t want to,” Sherlock moaned but let himself be led.

“Yeah, well, your transport needs sleep.”

John had him under his covers when his mobile went off on a table top across the room. Sherlock pointed across the room while the rest of his body slumped into the bed.

“No, you can read it in the morning.”

“It’s an alarm. It’ll keep going off. Just hit the button and tell me what it’s for.”

John crossed his arms and huffed.

“Please,” Sherlock insisted into his pillow.

“Fine.” John walked over to press the necessary buttons. The reminder appeared in large, white letters. “Your, uh, testosterone injection. Tomorrow.”

Sherlock sat up straight, the drowsiness almost completely gone from his face. “Yes, right. Yes.”

“Sherlock, you’re tired,” John heard himself say without thinking. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, yeah?” John pressed the ‘reminder off’ button and stepped back to Sherlock’s bed to press a kiss to his forehead. “Go to sleep. Don’t worry.”

“You already know.” Sherlock cocked his head to the side and looked up at John. “Of course, you already know. You’re not completely daft. I couldn’t hide something like that for too long, of course. Of course. John.”

“Sherlock, it’s all fine. I said it before. I will keep saying it.”

“How long? What made you see? How could I not have known?”

“If I make some tea and we talk, will that make you feel better?”

“It’s late for tea.”

“Decaf. I’m sure I can find some in that kitchen of ours.”

Sherlock nodded before shaking his head, “No. No tea. Just sit. I understand if you would like the closeness that we have to end.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“You’re unsure how to treat me now.”

“No. I haven’t treated you any different since I found out, Sherlock. You would have picked up on it if I had. But you’re no different than when I met you, so there shouldn’t _be_ any difference.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly. “So you don’t think I was lying to you?”

“No, it wasn’t any of my business.”

“So the closeness doesn’t have to end?” He sounded so…pitiful. John blamed the sudden appearance of emotions on the sleep-deprivation. However, he did seem to be settling back down into his bed.

“No, of course not. Why would…? Never mind.” John began to get up. “Will you do me a favour, Sherlock? After I leave, take your binder off. You shouldn’t be sleeping in it.”

“How’d you know I bind?”

“Lestrade and I searched your room during the last drugs bust.”

“Did anyone else?”

“No. Greg doesn’t trust anyone else to go through, well, your bedroom. It’s personal.”

“Then by societal decency, he shouldn’t be going through it at all.”

“You shouldn’t be hiding evidence from the Yard,” John pointed out. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away from John. “Binder, Sherlock.” Sherlock pulled the covers up over his shoulders as John closed the door, but lowered them a few seconds later to do as John asked. Rolling back onto his back, he shoved a hand down his pants and replaced his packer in the bedside table drawer before drifting off to some much needed sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Neither man really mentioned it again, save for John insisting Sherlock remove his binder at bedtime, even if he was still awake. John figured if Sherlock had the sitting room to himself, he wouldn’t need to wear it and if he had been wearing it all day, it was good to give himself a break at night. John would give him the privacy to do so.

Similar to food, and even water sometimes, all John could really do was tell him and hope he listened. He couldn’t force food down his throat, just make him sit down to eat. He couldn’t drug him to force sleep, he could just insist on Sherlock laying down. He couldn’t physically strip him, but could only remind him and give him space and privacy.

John liked to think of himself as successful in his caring for Sherlock. He knew certain tricks to get him do what was good for him. A piece of toast next to some tea on the coffee table was gone in minutes, even if Sherlock was just mindlessly putting substance into his mouth.

“Manipulative,” Sherlock said suddenly, pulling John from his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“He’s very manipulative. How else would he get so many people to dirty their hands for him?”

“Some people are like that,” John pointedly tried not to look to Sherlock. He really had no room to talk.

“Most people will do anything it takes to serve their purposes.”

Later that week Sherlock was reluctantly brought on for a case for Mycroft. Irene Adler, The Woman who had enough information to bring down the royal family and British government, a dominatrix Mycroft thought Sherlock could help with. No one expected Irene to get the better of Sherlock Holmes.

It did give Sherlock something somewhat interesting to do for an afternoon, he thought as John and he travelled to her home. He decided the mugging ploy would work to get him in the door, for that, he needed John’s help to make it look real.

“Punch me in the face,” he turned to John after removing his scarf.

“Punch you?” John asked incredulously. Sherlock rolled his eyes and repeated himself in irritation.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.” Well, at least it wasn’t John’s insistence not to punch anyone with female genitalia, Sherlock thought. Still, he didn’t have time nor the will to explain.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He brought his hand up to connect with John’s face. It wasn’t nearly as hard as he could, just enough to goad the good doctor into giving him a little something back. Besides, if John wanted, Sherlock would offer to kiss the sore spot later that night if John wanted.

Shaking himself free of those intrusive thoughts, he braced himself for John’s inevitable retaliation. He definitely didn’t hold back as much as Sherlock had, but the pain wasn’t unbearable, rather somewhat thrilling.

Physically shaking himself this time, he rose back up to thank John, “Thank you. That was…that was…” He was going to say sufficient but the force of John’s body colliding with his followed by the force of impact against the ground.

Upon reflection, it may have been better to explain to John this part of his plan. It probably would have saved him from John fighting back so much. With an arm firmly lodged around his neck, Sherlock choked out, “Okay, I think we’re done now, John.”

“You want to remember, Sherlock,” John ground out, “I was a soldier. I killed people.”

“You were a doctor!” Sherlock argued.

“I had bad days!”

Eventually John let up enough for Sherlock to push John off his back. He caught his breath while he straightened himself out just slightly. John pulled his jacket in place, preparing himself to follow Sherlock to Irene’s door.

It would take very little time to get the pictures and get out. At least, that was until she walked in, hair up, make-up covering her face and nothing else. The confident way she held herself didn’t give Sherlock much to go on at all. She seemed to know that.

Her confidence astounded him. Not many women would be able to walk into a room with a stranger in such a state of undress with absolutely no hint at being uncomfortable. She mistook his silence for discomfort on his part, he was sure. It wasn’t her state that shook him; he wouldn’t mind walking around nude or close to it in his own flat if he were half as comfortable in his own skin as she appeared in his. No, it was her look, an absolutely predatory look as if she thought Sherlock a competent adversary.

He understood the usage of sex as a power play. Many people would succumb to such a play, as John practically did upon seeing her. He understood how humans could be manipulated with the use of the chemicals released during pleasure and why humans enjoyed the act of sex even if he did not himself. He understood how Irene Adler got such incriminating photographs in the first place. Sex, like any other biological functions, could be explained and analysed and used to weaken people.

John, on the other hand, was clearly uncomfortable by Irene’s lack of clothing, offering her merely the napkin he had in his hand to cover herself with.

“Why? Feeling exposed?” She lowers herself into the chair behind her.

“No. I don’t think he knows where to look,” Sherlock said, upon seeing John’s slightly reddened face and nervous fidgeting. He stood, shed his coat, and offered it to Irene.

“No,” he practically purred, “I think he knows exactly where. I’m not so sure about you.” She wrapped the thick fabric around her body and took Sherlock’s place on the sofa.

“If I wanted to look at naked women, I’d borrow John’s laptop,” Sherlock murmured as he began to pace the room.

“You do borrow my laptop,” John pointed out. He was quite sure Sherlock had most likely stumbled upon his hidden folders but hadn’t said anything about it. If he had managed to get passed the first password, he most likely easily bypassed any other password on _his_ laptop. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock would actually go looking for those types of folders, but almost nothing would surprise him when it pertained to Sherlock.

“I confiscate it,” Sherlock clarified without missing a beat.

Irene brought up the case Lestrade had called them in for earlier that morning. A simple case, really. He couldn’t understand why no one else could see it. Seeming to humour her, Sherlock sent John out of the room to complete their plan while he talked on about the case.

“Why should I try to understand?” She crossed her legs on the sofa and continued to look at him expectantly.

“Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression,” Sherlock muttered almost bitterly. While others praised her for her use of such a carnal act to get ahead, Sherlock believed intelligence was more pragmatic. “Stop boring me and _think_. It’s the new sexy,” he mocked her comment from before with an eye roll.

“The car is going to backfire.”

“There’s going to be a loud noise,” he affirmed.

“So what?”

“Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything. For instance, on hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child.” Sherlock followed her gaze to the mirror above the mantelpiece. “Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.”

Sherlock was prepared to talk circles around her for hours if that was what it took to get the correct key code for the safe. However, the appearance of a small armed force of American men ruined that plan. Yet again, he found himself at the barrel end of a gun. Two other men held guns on John and Irene.

“Sir, the safe. Now, please,” the first American said.

“Please, I don’t know the code,” Sherlock insisted.

“We’ve been listening. She said she told you.”

“Well, if you _had_ been listening, you’d have known she didn’t,” Sherlock said with a slight huff.

“I’m assuming I’ve missed something. From your reputation, I’m assuming you didn’t, Mr. Holmes.” Flattering as it was to have the man admit he wasn’t nearly as observant as Sherlock, he truly didn’t know the code.

“For God’s sake, she’s the one who knows the code. Ask her!” John replied, fearful for his own life and Sherlock’s.

“On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.” The gun trained on John was pressed into the back of his neck, pushing him forward.

“I don’t know the code,” Sherlock said in a more urgent tone.

“One.”

“I _don’t know. The code._ ”

“Two.”

“She didn’t tell me. I don’t know it!” If it had been just Sherlock, he could easily disarm the Yank, but it would most likely result in John’s death if Sherlock were to try anything.

“I’m prepared to believe you, any second now,” the man said in an even voice.

“Three.”

“No, stop!” Sherlock begged immediately. Taking one last glance at Irene, he started typing in the numbers he believed made the most sense for Irene. The confidence she had in herself and in her body, it was highly likely that her measurements would be the code.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please.” With a quick glance to Irene, he noticed her intentional flinch to the side. Quick thinking, he murmured his and John’s code word before ducking out of the way. It was rather lucky the bullet struck the man holding a gun to John’s neck. It was quick work to disarm the man beside Sherlock while Irene incapacitated the man behind her. In the short lull between the men falling to the floor and Irene leading them out of the room, Sherlock stole the mobile from the safe.

“There’s a back door. You better check it, Doctor Watson,” Irene warned upon entering what looked to be her room. John looked to Sherlock, a silent question in his eyes. Sherlock minutely nodded and John left the room.

Sherlock hadn’t expected her to keep a syringe of some sort of debilitating drug atop the vanity table, but in retrospect, he perhaps shouldn’t have been so surprised. The riding crop to the face certainly wasn’t surprising, given her occupation. Even in his rather tolerant system, the drugs were making quick work of his capabilities.

John returned too late to retrieve the mobile phone, instead focusing on Sherlock’s writhing body on the floor.

“I was wrong about him. He did know where to look,” Irene said smugly while positioning herself on the edge of the window.

“For what? What are you talking about?” John insisted. His fingers were instinctively checking for Sherlock’s pulse, strong and quick but not dangerously so.

“The key-code to my safe. Shall I tell him?” she directed the question to Sherlock, as if he were in any mind to answer. She turned back to John with a smirk. “My measurements.” She let herself fall back, out into the alleyway between the two buildings. Sherlock still fought against his drugged body uselessly. It was so inconvenient his transport could be incapacitated so easily by a series of chemicals, truly.

By the time Lestrade was called, Sherlock had lost consciousness. Lestrade insisted on helping John get Sherlock back to Baker Street and into his room only after John affirmed the substance he was drugged with wasn’t fatal. Between the two of them, Sherlock wasn’t that difficult to manoeuvre up the stairs to their flat and onto his bed.

After a quick thanks from John, Lestrade made his departure while John set to making tea and settling in on the sofa. It would be a long night if he planned on staying awake the entire time Sherlock was out.

 

In hindsight, the dreams of Sherlock had been caused by Irene sneaking into his room while John dozed on the sofa. In his disorientated state, he had to admire how she explained what he already knew about the death of the traveller. Her voice a smooth whisper to him in his sleep, barely disturbing his sleep. Hours later, he finally woke to a feeling of restlessness underneath the lethargy the drug had caused. His limbs wouldn’t work correctly, frustrating, he thought.

“John,” he shook his head in attempts to clear the fogginess. “John!”

From the common room, Sherlock’s voice roused John from his light dozing. He tiredly padded to Sherlock’s room to find him on the floor. With an eye roll, he pulled Sherlock’s fidgeting body back onto his bed. “No, back to bed. You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.” John pulled the sheets back over Sherlock’s body with a slight hair ruffle and a kiss to the dark curls.

“Of course I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine,” Sherlock rambled. “I’m absolutely fine.”

“Yes, you’re great.” John chuckled to himself. “I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?”

Leave it to Sherlock to insist that he didn’t need anyone. Of course not, John thought sardonically. “No reason at all,” John said instead as he closed the door behind him, failing to notice Sherlock’s coat returned to the metal hook on the back.

Sherlock was all but asleep when he heard his coat moan, or rather, heard the obscene message tone Irene had added to his mobile that had been in his coat when he offered it to her earlier. It wasn’t much of a surprise her message tone of choice and he was much too out of it to even think about changing the tone back. He barely managed to make it back to his bed with his phone in hand.


	5. The Morning After

The next morning brought on a headache similar to a bad hangover. Tossing back some paracetamol, Sherlock joined John at the table in the morning while Mycroft began berating Sherlock on his failure to obtain the pictures.

During that ‘dull’ conversation, his new message tone played loud and clear, provoking John to ask the predictable question, “What was that?”

“Text,” Sherlock murmured dismissively as he checked the message.

“But what was that noise?”

Useless question, really. John of all people should recognize a woman moaning. He ignored it. “Did you know there were other people after her, too, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked without looking up.

“It’s a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson and her sentimentality interrupted.

“Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft snapped. It had been a long morning, a disappointing morning, really. His temper rather frayed.

Both John and Sherlock glared at him with a sharp exclamation until Mycroft apologized. It wasn’t until after Mrs. Hudson had retreated back downstairs and Mycroft had left in frustration that John brought up the message tone again.

“Why does your phone make that noise?”

“What noise?” Sherlock hadn’t gotten around to changing it, however, he didn’t think he would. It was convenient to have a different tone for Irene. It certainly wasn’t _sentiment_.

“That noise. The one it just made.” John appeared uncomfortable using any other defining terminology for the new sound Sherlock’s mobile made.

“It’s a text alert, means I’ve got a text.” Really, need he explain this to John? Why did it matter what the alert sounded like?

“Your texts don’t usually make that noise.” Wow, how observant! Sherlock thought to himself. Truly, such a significant insight.

“Well, somebody got hold of the mobile phone and apparently as a joke, personalized their text alert noise.” John surely didn’t think _Sherlock_ had changed the sound himself.

“So every time they text you—“ John’s statement was amusingly cut off by another salacious sound from his mobile. Sherlock noticed, with a quick glance in John’s direction, the light reddening of his face and the slight fidgeting in his seat. Discomfort, or embarrassment, over a simple alert sound.

“It would seem so,” Sherlock affirmed coolly.

“See, I’m wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” Sherlock said quietly as he raised the newspaper up to cover his face. Certainly he wouldn’t have to spell it out for John.

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Where do you get that idea?”

“She’s smart, beautiful. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you happened to hold a…fondness for her.”

“Don’t be daft. You sound like one of your ex-girlfriends.” Sherlock had a tone of finality. Any further statements from John would be disregarded, John had learned, so he didn’t bother saying anything more.

Life continued on as it normally would, as ordinary as life could be with Sherlock as a friend. It was almost daily that John heard the obnoxious text alert that signalled another message from Irene. John was almost certain he wasn’t seeing her, but he had to tell himself repeatedly that it wasn’t his concern. If Sherlock had decided to actually _date_ , that was his prerogative. They certainly weren’t _dating_.

Still, they shared space when convenient. On the sofa, if Sherlock wanted to sit still enough, he would rest his head or feet in John’s lap. Sometimes it was John leaning against Sherlock while he read over case notes or experiment data or typing away on one of their laptops. It was the mindless stroking of fingers, the soft kisses on soft hair, the closeness of it all that they both enjoyed and took for granted. There was no discussion, just acceptance and blurred boundaries.

John could almost distinguish between texts involving cases and those that were merely Sherlock vying for attention. It was exhausting living with Sherlock, but John wouldn’t have it any other way. Keeping himself on the move kept him tired enough at night he could sleep almost dreamless. It was a relief in that sense.

In the months to come, John continued to go on dates. He didn’t discuss this with Sherlock and Sherlock didn’t bother bringing it up either. The way Sherlock figured, as long as John returned to their flat most nights, it was all fine, as John would say. Sherlock had no desire to give John what he looked for in these women, nor did he think he could. This system of theirs worked the way it was.

Almost every evening Sherlock got a text from Irene inviting him to dinner. Sherlock could almost feel John’s irritation in the way his body tensed. 

It was towards the end of November, beginning of December, when Sherlock surprised John with his lack of binder under his shirt as they curled up together on the sofa. With how fitted his button-down shirts were, it would have been easy to tell. However, this particular night, he wore a looser fitted, plain, grey t-shirt. It was certainly odd Sherlock in an old t-shirt, arms folded over his chest in seeming self-consciousness, but John welcomed him with open arms. With a deep breath, he lowered his arms to his sides. John was sure that was the first time he saw the blood rush to Sherlock’s face, his lovely cheekbones flushing a light red.

John didn’t comment, didn’t draw attention to Sherlock’s body. He lifted his arm to the back of the sofa and Sherlock laid down beside him with his head and shoulders on John’s lap. John waited for the man to settle in comfortably then placed his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm. His hand ran from shoulder to elbow as he turned his attention back to the telly.

It became normal to have Sherlock not binding in their downtime in the flat. It was comforting to know he wasn’t hurting himself in that sense so John didn’t prod him with reminders as often as he did food and water. December went by rather smoothly until a couple nights before Christmas when John had decided to host a get-together of their closest friends, much to Sherlock’s annoyance.


	6. Christmas

It began with just John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson. John’s current girlfriend was the next to arrive so John began fawning all over her. Lestrade appeared next and attempted to talk to Sherlock who escaped to the sanctuary of his violin. Those around him seemed pleased with the Christmas carols and he wasn’t forced to talk, a win-win situation.

Still, he couldn’t play the entire night and John brought the girlfriend over in hopes of getting her and Sherlock to get along. Really, he could try all he wanted, but no relationship would last if Sherlock didn’t either find a way to like John’s girlfriend or ignore her completely. Sherlock, however, didn’t want to socialize with John’s girlfriend. It wasn’t his responsibility and truthfully, he couldn’t remember her name. He was surprised John could keep the names straight.

Thankfully, Molly appeared before Sherlock could completely ruin John’s chances of getting any action that night, at least John thought. Everyone else was dressed rather casually, nicely but not overdone. Molly was aiming to please someone and everyone but that person knew exactly who it was even without her gushing about it in the morgue.

Sherlock didn’t like the holidays. Too many get-togethers and socialization. He’d had enough for a lifetime and it was only an hour into the endless night. That would be his excuse for each time he ‘lashed out’ at their friends. It was fine, or at least manageable, until he got to Molly’s appearance. He’s not exactly sure what provoked him to start, but once he did, there was no stopping him.

“I see you’ve got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you’re serious about him.” That would be good news, something he’s supposed to socialize over, right?

“Sorry, what?”

“In fact, you’re seeing him this very night and giving him a gift.”

“Take a day off,” John muttered. He tried to veer Sherlock off course, it was one thing to mumble the snide comment about him or Lestrade, they could take it. But John could see a look in Sherlock’s eyes that he just knew wouldn’t end well if he continued.

“Shut up and have a drink,” Lestrade offered. He’d heard of Molly’s plans for Sherlock’s gift and, while Sherlock may point out how unobservant he was, Sherlock was oblivious in other ways Lestrade was not.

“Oh, come on, surely you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a boy. All the others are slapdash at best. It’s for someone special, then.” Really, what better way to spend Christmas than doing what Sherlock did best? Showing off. “The shade of red echoes the lipstick, either an unconscious association or one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind.” The only thing worse than the holidays was the ‘love’ he was expected to give those around him, Sherlock thought. Such a useless emotion, love.

“The fact that she’s serious about him is clear from the fact she’s giving him a gift at all,” Sherlock picked up the red box and continued. “That always suggest long-term hopes. However forlorn and that she’s seeing him tonight is evident in her make-up and what she’s wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…” Admittedly, that had been one observation he hadn’t meant to make, but his mouth just kept going sometimes. However, flipping the tag over to reveal his name had been enough to shock him into speechlessness.

John gave a disappointed huff Sherlock didn’t hear. It wasn’t as though he felt bad, it was that nagging feeling that he _should_ feel bad. It was a voice that sounded strangely like John’s that reminded him people have feelings and this was ‘a bit not good.’

“You always say such horrible things,” Molly said with a slight crack in her voice. “Every time. Always.” She shook her head mostly at herself. She was absolutely aware of her situation, unfortunately it was this awful being that she had fallen for. “Always,” she repeated, sounding disappointed with herself. Why did she bother trying to be nice to someone like Sherlock? He clearly didn’t deserve it, not from her.

“I am…sorry.” Sherlock swallowed. “Forgive me.” He wasn’t used to apologizing but it was the ‘right’ thing to do in a moment like this. He’d learned that much, at least. He apologized for being a ‘right git’ as John would say, as well as his own inability to return any sort of romantic feelings towards her. “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.” He hesitated only a moment before politely putting his lips to her cheek to complete his apology. ‘I’m sorry I can’t return your affections. This is the best I can do. Please let go of this silly notion,’ Sherlock thought to himself.

As he leaned away, his phone moaned in his pocket. Of course, Irene would be texting him to wish him a Merry Christmas then.

“Oh, no! That wasn’t…I didn’t…” Molly started to stammer.

“No, it was me,” Sherlock calmly explained. John and Mrs. Hudson didn’t look surprised at all.

“My God, really?” Lestrade said loudly over what Molly was saying. Sherlock shot him a glare. As if his voice could sound that feminine anymore. The testosterone in his system saw to that, thankfully.

“My phone,” Sherlock corrected with an eye roll. 

“Fifty-seven,” John said.

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asked as he pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket.

“Fifty-seven of those texts, the ones I’ve heard,” insinuating there had probably been more he _hadn’t_ heard.

“Thrilling that you’ve been counting,” Sherlock responded curtly and dismissively. “Excuse me.” He grabbed the small box from the mantelpiece that must have been placed there earlier in the day when they had been downstairs or out. The box was a similar colour to Molly’s, just a few shades darker. As he had been saying to Molly, the colour made an association between the gift and the lipstick of the giver.

“What’s up, Sherlock?” John asked in that curious voice of his.

“I said, excuse me.” He needed to not be around people at that moment. This was a private thing, not meant to be shared with anyone, including John.

“Do you ever reply?” John asked, sounding more frantic, as if his girlfriend wasn’t there.

The box contained the phone he had so desperately tried to obtain months beforehand. So light in his hand now, amazing that it held secrets that could potentially bring down several governments. Still, why would she give it to him so easily? Other than her imminent death.

He decided to give Mycroft the good news, a Christmas gift, perhaps. He would no longer have to worry about Irene having this sensitive information. It felt odd, knowing she would be gone, the texts that he had come to expect would cease completely.

“You okay?” John had untangled himself from his girlfriend to follow Sherlock to his room. Sherlock was aware of John’s presence as he made the quick phone call to Mycroft, but he couldn’t care less. Not wanting to be in the company of others, he gave a curt “Yes,” and pushed the door closed in John’s face. If he wanted affection, he would return to John later but now was not the time.

Sherlock didn’t return to the gathering downstairs. It was for the best, honestly. Molly left first, not exactly in a merry mood after Sherlock’s outburst. It was about an hour after his initial call to Mycroft when Sherlock received one in return informing him of what would most likely be Irene’s body.

He managed to get out of the flat without John following, but Mycroft insisted on driving Sherlock to the morgue, something about it being convenient. Sherlock wasn’t in any mood to argue, not tonight.

Molly had changed out of her superfluous dress and into something more suitable. She was there to unlock the morgue and supervise Sherlock while he identified the body.

“It’ll be difficult,” she said, trying to prepare him for the sight of Irene’s body. It was something you did for someone who knew the dead, right? “The face is a bit, sort of, bashed-up, so…” She lifted the white sheet without any other hesitation.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Mycroft pressed.

“Show me the rest of her.”

Molly humoured him and pulled the sheet down. Taking a quick sweep of her body, ensuring the measurements matched, he affirmed her identity. As if Molly was having a nightmare, she realized Sherlock had identified her by her body rather than her face. How intimate had he been with this woman that he could do that? How many times had he seen her like this to know without a shadow of a doubt?

Mycroft followed Sherlock out. He hadn’t gotten very far. “Look at them,” Mycroft looked towards the family sobbing for the loss of a family member as Sherlock took a drag off of the offered cigarette. “They all _care_ so much.” Mycroft certainly wouldn’t shed a tear for either of their parents’ or Sherlock’s death. The same could have been said about Sherlock.

“Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” Our way of so-called caring was different, Sherlock had insinuated. It was subtler, seemingly cold and calloused. Empathy wasn’t their strong suit, that was for sure.

“All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is _not_ an advantage, Sherlock.” Mycroft was consoling Sherlock the only way he knew how: logically. It wasn’t every day someone got the best of Sherlock and he was always fascinated by anyone who could do just that. While his connection to Irene wasn’t the conventional romantic relationship, it was something to Sherlock.

“This is low tar,” Sherlock complained.

“Well, you barely knew her.”

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he took his leave.

“And a happy New Year.” As soon as Sherlock was out the double doors, Mycroft phoned John. “He’s on his way. Did you find anything?”

“No. Did he take the cigarette?”

“Yes.”

John huffed out a quick “Shit.” Turning away from Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Jeanette, he lowered his voice, “Well, it looks like he’s clean. We’ve tried the usual places. Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?”

“No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.” ‘Even if he doesn’t want you to,’ Mycroft kept himself from adding. He knew first-hand how Sherlock could get, how rare it was to have something affect him so much.

“I’ve got plans,” John sighed. He was already sure of what would happen regarding those plans.

“No,” Mycroft affirmed John’s thoughts. With a sigh, John hung up and began apologizing profusely to Jeanette. It didn’t go over that well. John’s heart wasn’t exactly in it to begin with, but he truly gave up after he confused her with the last girlfriend. There was no saving it now, he realized.

John settled into his chair as Mrs. Hudson returned downstairs after Jeanette’s leave, alone for the time being. Taking advantage of the quiet and hoping to calm his racing mind, he pulled out a book from the bookshelf and began to read. He was barely thirty pages in when Sherlock returned.

“Are you okay?” John asked as he took his attention away from the book in his lap to look at the detective seemingly sniffing the air in the flat.

“I hope you didn’t mess up my drawers this time,” Sherlock huffed. Somehow he always knew when their flat was searched, John had realized. Sherlock still didn’t want to be around company of any sorts so he left John alone in the common room, almost slamming the bedroom door closed behind him.

John returned to the book until his eyes kept slipping closed and he read the same passage three times before giving up and climbing the stairs for bed. Sometime during the night, John registered a warm body against him in his bed, dark curls against his cheek, and hot breath on his neck, but he wasn’t conscious enough to distinguish if it was reality or just a dream.

He was woken up about five hours after he’d gone upstairs to Sherlock playing his violin. It was a new piece, from what John had heard between the starts and stops of the bow on the strings.

He had been on his way out of the flat to take advantage of the day off and restock their kitchen when he paused to assess Sherlock. It wasn’t exactly uncommon for Sherlock to play the instrument, but he usually did so when he was alone, or thought he was.

“Composing?” John asked.

“Helps me to think,” Sherlock offered before putting the bow back to the strings.

John shuffled his feet. Talking about emotions weren’t exactly either of their strong suits and Sherlock going as far to insist he hadn’t a need for _’emotions’_ made it much more difficult. Still, he brought himself to ask, “What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock quickly put the violin to the side, as if he had been waiting for John to ask, or perhaps looking for a distraction. “The count on your blog is still stuck at 1,895.”

“Yes. Faulty. Can’t seem to fix it.”

“Faulty. Or you’ve been hacked and it’s a message.” Sherlock pulled the phone from his pocket to eagerly type the digits in only to be disappointed by the obnoxious tone of getting the passcode wrong. Disappointment clouded his face as he returned to his violin. “Just faulty.”

“Right,” John said with a concerned look. His obsession with the phone was borderline unhealthy but John was helpless in this sense. He couldn’t even guess as to Sherlock’s mental state let alone figure out how to help the self-proclaimed sociopath. “Well, I’m going out,” he announced. Sherlock didn’t bother with a response.

John had barely made it out of the door when a woman looking very similar to Anthea called him over. Shamelessly, John began flirting with her after she suggestively asked about his plans for the evening. Only when he saw the black car pull up to the curb did he fully understand. Truthfully, looking back on it, the chances of a beautiful woman standing outside the door of 221b Baker Street _and_ said woman asking him out for the evening would be extremely low.

With a sigh, John lowered himself into the back seat. ‘Damn Mycroft,’ John thought silently the entire way to the abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Truly, it was ridiculous the lengths at which Mycroft would go just to keep Sherlock from discovering his _concern/em >._

_“He’s composing sad music. Doesn’t eat. Only talks to correct the television. I’d say he was heartbroken, but, well, he’s Sherlock Holmes. He does that anyways,” John announced to the empty room. “He does all that anyway—“ John paused as Irene walked out from behind a metal panel in the room._

_“Hello doctor Watson.”_

_“Tell him you’re alive,” John said as soon as he thought his voice wouldn’t shake._

_“He’d come after me.”_

_“I’ll come after you if you don’t,” John hoped he sounded threatening._

_“I believe you,” she said calmly._

_“You were dead. On a slab. It was definitely you.” ‘Sherlock Holmes identified your body,’ went unsaid._

_“DNA records are only as good as the records you keep.”_

_“Oh, I bet you know the record-keeper,” John had meant it as a joke._

_“I know what he likes and I needed to disappear,” she said with her usual smirk._

_“Then how come I can see you and I don’t even want to?” If it wasn’t for Sherlock’s near-obsession with Irene, John wouldn’t still be there. It was one thing to learn Sherlock felt for other people on some level, an intellectual level it seemed, but to have that person be messing with his head, John didn’t like it._

_“Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping and now I need it back, so I need your help.”_

_“No,” John shook his head immediately. Absolutely not, no way in hell._

_“It’s for his own safety.”_

_“So is this. Tell him you’re alive,” John insisted. Her death had had an effect on Sherlock John didn’t think was even capable. To discover she was alive would get him out of the danger zone, as Mycroft had put it, and hopefully return him to a state John knew how to deal with._

_“I can’t.”_

_“Fine,” John huffed. “I’ll tell him and I still won’t help you.” With a note of finality, John turned to walk away._

_“What do I say?” Irene called after him._

_“What do you normally say?” John turned back towards her angrily. “You’ve texted him a lot!” Not even he could deny the tone of jealousy in his voice. It wasn’t so much that she texted him, no, it was John’s frustration at the entire situation. Why did it have to be her? What made her so much more special than anyone else on this planet? She was clever, sure, but was that it? Was that all it took for Sherlock to take an interest in someone?_

_“Just the usual stuff,” she replied easily._

_“There is no usual in this case.” There was never a ‘usual’ when it came to Sherlock Holmes. She began rattling off the different texts she had sent Sherlock. Confused, John asked, “You _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?”_

_“At him,” she corrected, slight irritation in her voice. “He never replies.”_

_“No, Sherlock always replies to everything.” Sherlock always had to have the last word, frustratingly so. “He’s Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word.”_

_“Does that make me special?” She looked at John curiously, seeming to gauge his reaction to this new information._

_“I don’t know, maybe.”_

_“Are you jealous?” She took her attention away from John to type out a message._

_“We’re not a couple,” John managed to stutter out._

_“Yes you are,” she almost scoffed. “There. ‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.’ “_

_“Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”_

_“Well, I _am_.” That caused John to pause. What was she planning on doing with Sherlock then? Was this all a game to her, too? Was that all Sherlock was to her, another toy to play with? Someone to get power over and manipulate? “Look at us both,” she said softly with a slight look of pity on her face._

_Before John could think of a response, they both heard Irene’s text alert noise from Sherlock’s phone, clear as day. Worriedly, John went to chase after him. Whether he heard the entirety of the conversation or the shock of Irene not being dead, Sherlock could definitely use his friend._

_As if reading his thoughts, Irene held up a gloved hand to stop him. “I don’t think so, do you?”_


	7. Chapter 7

Logically, it would be completely possible for Irene to fake her own death, Sherlock knew that much. It didn’t stop the shock of the information, however. He couldn’t tell why this, why Irene was affecting him like this, but his walk back to Baker Street seemed surreal.

Why? Why? Why would Irene give him the phone if she wasn’t actually dead? Why would she come back? For what reason would she go to John and not him? Was John conspiring against him with her?

No, he stopped that train of thought. John showed loyalty within the first few hours of meeting Sherlock. There would be no way he’d conspire against him now, not after all this time.

Before he knew it, he was back at 221b. His attention focused on the irregular marks on the door frame, the appearance of scratched wood telling him that the door was forcibly opened. He half expected to see Irene (was that _hope_ he felt?) until he rationalized Irene wouldn’t enter their flat so forcefully. Someone dangerous, then, approach cautiously.

The scuff at the bottom of the stairs and the scratch marks along the walls only furthered his suspicions of a dangerous party invading his home. Carefully, he climbed the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson was visibly tense with a gun held to the back of her neck, the same gun pointed at him during the ordeal at Irene’s. “Oh, Sherlock,” she relaxed somewhat at the appearance of the detective.

“Don’t snivel, Mrs. Hudson. It’ll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet.” She had been in worse situations, but in this particular case it was better she played the helpless landlady.

“I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then why don’t you ask for it?” He quickly assessed Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, I’ve been asking this one, she doesn’t seem to know anything. But you know what I’m asking for, don’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

Oh, the human body is marvellously weak, Sherlock thought. “I believe I do. First get rid of your boys,” Sherlock demanded.

“Why?”

“I dislike being outnumbered, it makes for too much stupid in the room.” It was no problem at all pressing the right buttons to manipulate the American.

“You two, get to the car,” the American said, somewhat confident that he’d be able to overtake the elderly lady and the smart arsed detective. He was the one with a gun after all.

“Then get into the car and drive away. Don’t try to trick me, you know who I am, it doesn’t work. Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me.”

“So you can point a gun at me?” How stupid did the detective think he was?

“I’m unarmed.” Sherlock held his arms out as if to prove himself.

“Mind if I check?”

“Oh, I insist.” He couldn’t help the slight sarcastic tone. The American stepped away from Mrs. Hudson and towards Sherlock. He didn’t really think he’d be able to simply _feel_ any weapon through his thick coat, did he? With an eye roll, he pulled for the aerosol can of cleaner in his coat pocket.

Visibly more relaxed, Mrs. Hudson let Sherlock console her. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes.” The adrenaline made her hands tremble and her breathing was just beginning to slow. It would take several minutes for her heart rate and breathing rate to return to normal, but the immediate danger was passed.

John had taken a detour to allow Sherlock some time on his own. As much as he wanted to return to the flat, he allowed about an hour before he told Irene’s driver to head towards Baker Street. He didn’t know what to expect when he returned to the flat with a note on the door ‘Crime in Progress. Please disturb.’

Rushing up the stairs, he walked into the American gagged and tied to a kitchen chair with dark, dried blood running down from his nose. “What’s going on? Jesus, what the hell is happening?” The sound of Sherlock’s calm voice pulled John’s attention to the detective sitting comfortably in the chair by the door with a gun aimed towards the man bound to the chair.

“Mrs. Hudson’s been attacked by an American. I’m restoring balance to the universe. Take her downstairs and look after her.” Sherlock moved to allow the two of them to walk behind him.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” John had seen him protective over certain individuals, mostly John himself. It would make complete sense that Sherlock would get bent out of shape because an American man had harmed Mrs. Hudson. He didn’t exactly like the idea of leaving an upset Sherlock with a man who had upset him further for fear he might lose his already short temper and kill the man, but Mrs. Hudson needed tending to.

“I expect so. Now, go,” Sherlock insisted. “Lestrade? Yes, we’ve had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your _least_ irritating officers and an ambulance.”

“Oh, God, are any of you hurt?”

“Oh, no, no. We’re fine.”

“Good,” Greg let a sigh of relief pass his lips.

“No, it’s the burglar. He’s got himself rather badly injured.”

“How injured?”

“Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull, suspected punctured lung.”

“How did he sustain these injuries?”

“He fell out of a window.” Sherlock hung up the phone, removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He untied the American from the chair but kept the tape around his wrists. Leading him to the window, he quite easily manipulated the man’s body out the opening. He continued this process approximately three to four more times while waiting for Lestrade.

After Lestrade had come and taken the American away, Sherlock returned to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen area where John had kept her company.

“She’s staying with us in our flat tonight,” John announced.

“She’s fine,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“She can go and stay with her sister for the week. Doctor’s orders.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“She’s in shock, for God’s sake, Sherlock, and all over some bloody stupid camera-phone. Where is it, anyway?”

“Safest place I know.” He turned to Mrs. Hudson.

“You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot,” she said with a chuckle. “I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.” She laughed some more. It had been a while since she’d been through such an absolute thrill.

“Shame on you, John Watson.”

“Shame on me?” John asked, confused.

“Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall.” Sherlock put his arm over Mrs. Hudson’s small frame, giving her a loose hug while she let her head fall against his side. John could see Sherlock truly cared for Mrs. Hudson, but he knew that. What he hadn’t known was Mrs. Hudson could definitely take care of herself, more so than he thought.

Leaving Mrs. Hudson, the two men climbed the stairs to their own area where John immediately poured a glass of liquor from their cabinet.

“Where is it now?” he asked Sherlock curiously.

“Where no one will look.”

After a long day, he really wasn’t in the mood for cryptic answers, but he didn’t pry. “Whatever’s on that phone is more than just pictures.”

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock agreed.

“So, she’s alive then,” John jumped right on into it. “How are we feeling about that?”

“Happy New Year, John.”

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?”

Instead of answering John, he turned his focus to his violin. He hadn’t expected any less. They didn’t talk about feelings or emotions, even when they should. He made himself comfortable in his chair and listened to Sherlock play for as long as he could keep awake, which wasn’t long. Sherlock waited until he had climbed the stairs to his room before pulling out his phone and sending a quick reply to Irene.

He forgave her then, she realized as she read the text from Sherlock. She had him and he hadn’t gotten into the phone. She would be able to get it back unopened and untouched, all files intact.

Sherlock left his phone with his coat before shedding his clothing in favour of more comfortable sleepwear. Softly, he padded up the stairs to John’s room, confident he was sound asleep. Slowly he dropped his weight onto the open part of the mattress and pulled the covers over him. He could feel John’s warmth but he wasn’t close enough to touch any part of him, that wasn’t what this was. Something told him that appearing in someone else’s bed late at night without informing the host for whatever reason was ‘a bit not good.’ They hadn’t exactly discussed this part of their relationship, if this was a boundary that was okay to cross or not. As long as Sherlock wasn't caught, what would it matter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, this is following the storyline pretty closely. I didn't exactly plan for that entirely. For that, I apologize. Kinda sucks for a first Sherlock fanfic. Well, I'm hoping to start really differing after the Reichenbach fall, with Mary being a close friend but not partner of John Watson.
> 
> Also, I'm not sure how often this will update. I've been trying for weekends, but writing it on top of school and a part time job has proven challenging, so, we'll see. Been going through a lot of personal stuff on top of it, so Sherlock has taken a back seat, kind of.
> 
> Anyways, I hope the whole trans Sherlock has at least given some sort of deviance from a basic transcript of a BBC Sherlock transcript.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock woke up before John had and escaped to his own room until he heard John’s shuffling in the kitchen. About an hour later, he heard him leave for work. Sherlock set off for the morgue not long after.

Between Molly’s incessant chattering and his own mind wandering, it took him several hours to complete the experiments he wanted on Irene’s phone. By the time he had returned to the flat, John was following him up the stairs with groceries he’d picked up on his way home.

Nothing seemed out of place but there was a certain whiff of something that didn’t belong. Following that out-of-place smell, he wasn’t all that surprised to discover Irene in his bed. In his dressing gown, absolutely. Honestly, he thought he rather preferred her nudity to her _stealing_ his best ( _best!_ ) dressing gown.

“We’ve a client,” Sherlock called to John.

“What, in your bedroom?” John set the bags in his hands down and followed Sherlock into his room. “Ooh.” Well this was certainly a twist.

Upon waking, Irene took Sherlock’s seat in the common area while Sherlock pulled up a kitchen chair with a slight glare. Getting right into it, he asked, “Who’s after you?”

“People who want to kill me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Killers.”

“It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific,” John jumped in. It was hard not to feel out of place with the two of them. His mind was no match for either of them and Sherlock seemed to only pay attention to her and vice versa.

“So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them?”

“It worked for a while.”

“Except you let John know that you’re alive, and therefore me.”

“I knew you’d keep my secret.”

“You couldn’t,” Sherlock accused.

“But you did, didn’t you?” she said curiously. There had been a chance Sherlock would at least inform Mycroft of Irene’s sudden revival. But looking at him, she noticed he hadn’t said a word to anyone. With a grin, she turned to John and asked, “Where’s my camera-phone?”

“It’s not here. We’re not stupid.” John looked at her with a subtle smugness.

She turned to Sherlock. “Then what have you done with it? If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.”

“If they’ve been watching me, they’ll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago.”

“I need it.”

“Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we?” John pointed out, followed by a suggestion of retrieval.

“Very good, John,” Sherlock praised. “Excellent plan, full of precautions.” Sherlock would be almost proud of his line of thinking had the phone not been with him the entire time.

“Thank you.” John sounded proud of himself, practically preening at Sherlock’s approval. “So, why don’t I phone—“ That accomplished feeling faded completely away as he watched Sherlock pull the camera-phone from his pocket. With a frustrated huff, he sat back.

“What do you keep on here? In general, I mean?” Sherlock asked Irene.

“Anything I can use to my advantage.”

“For blackmail,” John piped in.

“For protection,” she corrected.

“But you’ve acquired something more danger than protection. Do you know what it is?”

“Yes. But I don’t understand it,” she admitted.

“I assumed. Show me.”

She held out her hand.

“The passcode,” Sherlock insisted. After a few seconds, it became clear she wouldn’t tell him so he reluctantly handed over the mobile. She tilted the device away playfully before typing four digits in.

Feigning confusion, she murmured, “It’s not working.”

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock bounded up in victory. “Because it’s a duplicate that I had made into which you’ve just entered the numbers 1058. I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that, but thanks anyway.” He pulled the real camera-phone from under a seat cushion and typed in the digits. The obnoxious buzzing sound of the wrong passcode being entered made him frown.

“I told you that camera-phone was my life. I know when it’s in my hand.”

“Oh, you’re rather good,” Sherlock admitted.

“You’re not so bad,” she said with a smile.

John looked on confused for a moment. Normal people do not get this excited over being beaten. He could see the glint in Sherlock’s eye that he usually got over a good case. This was different, it was a game and a good one at that. One that John didn’t feel as though he could keep up with nor did he feel as though Sherlock wanted him to, not this time.

“Hamish,” he found himself saying loudly. “John Hamish Watson, just if you were looking for baby names,” he played his outburst off as meaningless teasing. It was silly, really. Clearly that was a relationship that would never work. The only basis was the challenge each posed to the other. That wasn’t even mentioning Irene’s admission to her preference for the female sex.

Sherlock looked confused for a moment before realization dawned on him about what John was insinuating. Thankfully, Irene saved him from having to respond in any way by continuing, “There was a man, an MOD official and I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me one of these emails was going to save the world. He didn’t know it, but I photographed it.” She handed the mobile back to Sherlock. “He was a bit tied up at the time. It’s a bit small on that screen, can you read it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said dismissively, already trying to decipher patterns.

“Code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it, though he was mostly upside-down, as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out. What can you do, Mr. Holmes? Go on, impress a girl.”

He barely registered the soft lips on his cheek before he was spouting out the deciphered information about a plane. John looked absolutely amazed, a look Sherlock never grew tired of seeing. With a glance towards Irene, he began to explain himself, ending with, “Please don’t feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John’s expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language.”

“I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy. Twice,” Irene murmured in a sultry voice. The effect wasn’t entirely lost on Sherlock. He had to admit, the thrill of deciphering something that fast had certain…effects on him, an increase in adrenaline, a slight increase in heart rate.

“John, please, can you check those flight schedules, see if I’m right?” he said without breaking eye contact with Irene.

Still a little struck by how entirely fast Sherlock had seen through that email and how fast he had explained his logic, John began typing at his laptop. He honestly couldn’t tell if he was more turned on by Sherlock or Irene at that particular moment in time. The sexual tension was unbelievable and he wasn’t even sure Sherlock was aware of it.

“I’ve never begged for mercy in my life,” Sherlock murmured as if he and Irene were alone.

“Twice,” she insisted.

“Uh, yeah, you’re right. Flight double-oh-seven.”

Sherlock looked towards John. “What did you say?”

“You’re right,” John repeated. Of course, Sherlock loved hearing he was right.

“No, after that. What did you say after that?”

“Double-oh-seven. The flight.”

Sherlock went on one of his tangents, pushing Irene out of the way to pace while he thought. Something didn’t sit right with him, something to do with Mycroft’s conversation at an earlier point in time. It kept prodding his thoughts until he found himself alone with Irene and his fingers plucking mindlessly at violin strings.

“Where’s John?”

“He went out a couple hours ago,” Irene tilted her head slightly. She thought John had been exaggerating when he told her Sherlock talked to himself without even realizing it.

“I was just talking to him.”

“He said you do that.” Amazing, she thought. For such a brilliant person, he could be so oblivious. Listening to him talk about an old rumour wasn’t exactly the topic she had in mind, so she not-so-subtly switched the topic by asking, “Have you ever had anyone?”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock asked with a confused look.

“And when I say ‘had’ I’m being indelicate.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll be delicate, then.” She got up from John’s chair and lowered herself in front of Sherlock. He took note of the ring on her finger and her soft but strong fingers trailing his wrist. “Let’s have dinner.”

“Why?”

“You might be hungry.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

“Why would I want to have dinner if I’m not hungry?” he asked slowly as he let his fingers wrap around her wrist. He watched as her eyes lowered to his lips, pupils dilating, pulse fluttering quicker under his fingertips on her wrist.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?” Her voice was soft, almost like a melody Sherlock wasn’t used to hearing. Her soft-looking lips turned up into a bit of a smile.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson’s shrill voice cut through the air, through the moment, before he could think of a way to respond.

“Too late,” Irene murmured, her smile fading.

“It’s not the end of the world, it’s Mrs. Hudson.”

She pulled her wrist back and he let his hand drop back onto the armrest of the chair. He watched as she gracefully lifted herself up and away from him.

“Sherlock, this man was at the door, is the bell still not working?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “He shot it,” she explained to the man in the grey suit at Sherlock’s door.

“Have you come to take me away again?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, I decline,” he muttered stubbornly.

Pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket, the man insisted, “I don’t think you do.”

The curious plane ticket for the flight that he had earlier discovered from the email certainly piqued his interest. Irene all but forgotten, he pulled on his jacket and coat while putting up no argument to the black car in front of 221b.

Complaining to the silent drivers about how this plane with a bomb planted on it was exactly like Coventry back in World War II, he still couldn’t figure out why he was being summoned for such an ordeal. Both governments knew about it and weren’t stopping the plane so what was he to do about it?

Upon reaching the plane, the American he had repeated dropped out the window of his flat greeted him. The hostility was clear and definitely called for. The question was, why was he _here_? Part of the American government who knew about the bomb on the plane then?

Sherlock attributed the sarcastic bite to each ‘sir’ the man said to him due to that hostility, but the comment about putting a medal on him if he had shot him dead seemed off. It insinuated the American government wasn’t pleased with him for some reason.

Once aboard the plane, he realized the passengers were corpses, each and every one of them. This was why neither government was stepping in to stop the plane from taking off.

Mycroft appeared at the entrance. “The Coventry conundrum. What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead.”

“Plane blows up midair, mission accomplished for the terrorist, hundreds of casualties but no one dies.”

“You’ve been stumbling around the fringes of this one for ages. Or were you too _bored_ to notice the pattern? We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back. Though one of our passengers didn’t make the flight.”

“How was the plane going to fly?” Before Mycroft could answer, Sherlock answered himself. “Of course, unmanned aircraft, hardly new.”

“It doesn’t fly. It never will. This entire project was cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now. We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email and months and years of planning, finished.”

“Your MOD man,” Sherlock guessed confidently.

“That’s all it takes,” Mycroft said simply. He wasn’t at all thrilled about this outcome. “One lonely, naïve man, desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.”

Sherlock shrugged. Ordinary people were so easy to manipulate, he thought. “You should screen your defence people more carefully,” he said, feeling smug that one of Mycroft’s men had been the one to ruin an entire project of this scale so easily.

“I’m not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock. I’m talking about you!”

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. What had he done to mess up this project?

“A damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook.” He hadn’t expected Sherlock of all people to get caught up with Irene Adler. Who knew it took a mere dominatrix to fool the great Sherlock Holmes? A clever, beautiful woman would be the downfall of Sherlock. Mycroft _never_ would have expected he would give Sherlock _more_ credit than he deserved. “The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute? Or were you really eager to impress?”

“I think it was less than five seconds.” Irene’s smooth voice caught his attention and made him turn.

“I drove you into her path.” Mycroft looked regretful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Sherlock hated that tone, that bloody superior tone. Mycroft was and always would be nearly untouchable to him. He could never compete with Mycroft and truly, he was tired of the reminders of that.

“Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk,” Irene couldn’t look at one brother without looking at the other down the aisle, though, she had to admit that was part of the fun.

“So do I,” Sherlock said, betrayal just on the surface. He had honestly thought he was helping her stay alive, not helping her in this regard. “There are a number of aspects I’m still not quite clear on.” She looked at him as he spoke until she passed him completely.

“Not you, junior, you’re done now,” she said dismissively. If there was one think Sherlock hated, it was being utterly ignored, especially in favour of Mycroft. “There’s more, loads more. I could topple your whole world. You have exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your superiors that your big security leak is your own little brother.”

Pulled along with them but being completely disregarded by both Irene and Mycroft, they move to Mycroft’s office for negotiations. Sherlock felt as though he were a little girl all over again, having Mycroft take care of some mess of his while he sat alone.

“We have people who can get into this.”

“I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months. Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my camera-phone?” The sultry tone quickly turned into one a mother would use with her child. Irene no longer thought him worthy of any challenge, she had beaten him. Again. Now he was just something for her to play with when she found it suitable.

“There are four additional unites wired inside the casing. I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive. Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive,” he relayed dutifully.

“Explosive,” she affirmed. “It’s more me.”

“Some data is always recoverable,” Mycroft argued.

“Take that risk.”

“You have the passcode to open it. I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this statement.

“Sherlock,” Irene called again, sounding bored.

“There will be two passcodes, one to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress, you can’t know which one she’s given you and there would be no point in a second attempt.”

“Oh, he’s good, isn’t he? I should have him on a leash. In fact, I still might.”

“We destroy this, then. No one has the information,” Mycroft called her attention away from Sherlock. He wasn’t exactly one to step up to defend Sherlock, but that didn’t mean he appreciated Irene’s comments about treating Sherlock as a mere pet.

“Fine, good idea. Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on that information.”

“Are there?”

“Telling you would be playing fair. I’m not playing anymore. A list of my requests, and protection once they’re granted. I imagine you’d like to sleep on it.”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Too bad.”

Sherlock chuckles to himself bitterly. Even Mycroft could be played around with by Irene.

“You’ve been very…thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you.”

“I can’t take all the credit. I had a bit of help. Jim Moriarty sends his love,” she said mostly to Sherlock. He wasn’t too surprised, but the name did bring him back to full focus.

“Yes, we’ve been in touch,” Mycroft said. “Seems desperate for my attention, which I’m sure can be arranged.”

“He gave me a bit of advice on how to play the Holmes boys. Do you know what he calls you? The Ice Man and the Virgin. Didn’t even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble.”

“Nicely played.”

“No,” Sherlock piped up again.

“Sorry?” Irene said.

“Very, very close, but no. You got carried away.” Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair. “The game was too elaborate; you were enjoying yourself too much.”

“No such thing as too much.”

“Enjoying the chase, certainly. But sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.”

“Sentiment? What are you talking about?” Irene asked. Mycroft looked just as confused, not that Sherlock had noticed. No, he was paying attention to the small details, the way Irene’s face just barely flushed as Sherlock pushed forward, the way her voice wavered just slightly, barely noticeable.

“You.”

“Oh, dear God. Look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you. Why? Because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?” she goaded.

He reached for her wrist yet again, leaning close as if to kiss her, only to move to whisper in her ear at the last second. “Because I took your pulse. Elevated. Pupils dilated.” He reached behind her for the camera-phone. “I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive.” While it was easy to observe these simple things and determine Irene’s true feelings, it still wasn’t clear why her presence had such an effect on him. While it didn’t cause complete and catastrophic failure, it had come rather too close for comfort and Sherlock didn’t care for it.

The touches between him and John that caused dopamine levels to rise hadn’t usually caused him to be so entirely distracted as to not notice something like this. But her, she had a different effect on him and it was destructive, not nearly as destructive as her sentiment towards him was, but destructive enough for him to notice.

“When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you. The combination to your safe, your measurements, but this, this is far more intimate. This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head. You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for, but you just couldn’t resist, could you? I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.” 

“Everything I’ve said, it’s not real,” a last ditch effort, really. “I was just playing the game.”

“I know. And this is just losing.” He handed the phone off to Mycroft before he could see the passcode. “Here you go, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight.”

“I’m certain they will.”

“If you’re feeling kind, lock her up, otherwise let her go. I doubt she’ll survive long without her ‘protection.’ “

“Are you expecting me to beg?”

“Yes.” He paused by the door.

A few moments of hesitation before Irene gave in. “Please.” She paused. “You’re right.” That made him turn towards her. “I won’t even last six months.”

“Sorry about dinner.” There was her answer, then.

He returned to the flat long after John and turned in. Pulling off his coat and jacket, he fell into his new routine of changing and climbing the stairs to John’s room. Pausing for a few moments by the cracked door to listen for John’s deep, even breathing, he pushed the door open slowly and settled in under the covers.

“Where have you been?” John’s voice asked in a languid, sleepy voice barely above a whisper.

“Out,” Sherlock’s low voice rumbled in the quiet room.

“Did you eat dinner?” John turned towards Sherlock, his eyes still closed and his voice still sluggish. He tried to stifle a yawn after his question.

“No. Tomorrow.”

“Binder?”

“Off,” Sherlock replied.

“Are you…okay?” John asked hesitantly. Instead of answering, Sherlock ran his hand along John’s wrist, similar to how he had with Irene. He pulled John’s arm from his side to Sherlock’s waist, the warm hand opening to rest palm side down on his side. He slid his fingertips back up John’s arm, just under the cuff of his t-shirt, feeling the warm skin and tougher muscles under the surface. John shifted his hand so his wrist rested against Sherlock’s side and his hand hung limply behind Sherlock.

“Go back to sleep, John,” Sherlock whispered with a kiss to John’s forehead.

“Talk about this tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock didn’t fall asleep for a while. He spent a lot of the night just watching John sleep until his eyes finally slid shut and he was able to escape into unconsciousness.

 

Sherlock was awake and dressed hours before John came downstairs for tea the next morning. Sherlock had been cleaning up the petri dishes from his last experiment so he could fill the space again with his newest analysis.

“So, uh,” John nervously adjusted his shirt as he turned the kettle on for tea. “How long have you been sneaking into my bed at night?”

“It’s just been a couple nights here and there,” Sherlock didn’t bother looking up from the table.

“Okay, but why do you?” John leaned against the counter top.

“Your presence seems to have a calming effect at times.”

“You don’t think you should have asked? Actually, never mind. Of course you didn’t think to ask first.”

“Does it bother you? Do you want me to stop?”

“I want to know why you come to me? Or anyone for that matter. You don’t need comfort, so why?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know why, John. It’s always been you.” This was probably the closest they got to talking about such touchy subjects and to John, it felt like a dance around the actual topic he wanted to discuss.

“You can’t just…appear in my bed and expect me not to say anything about it,” it was way too early to be shouting but John came close.

“We didn’t talk about anything else. Why does this need to be different?”

“It’s my _bed_ , Sherlock!”

“What difference does it make?” Sherlock raised his own voice. He pushed the stacked dishes to the side and turned to John.

“What difference,” John mumbled to himself. “There’s a line there, Sherlock, one that we probably shouldn’t cross.”

“There were other lines crossed with no problem, so why this?” Sherlock demanded. He swiped the stack of petri dishes and dropped them carelessly into the trashcan by the opening to the common area.

“While we’re on delicate things, what happened to Irene?”

Sherlock didn’t look back towards John as he pulled on his coat over his jacket. “Going out,” he called back. John had seen sulking Sherlock (more often than he’d like), but this was different. It wasn’t the quiet brooding he was used to, no, this felt more explosive than usual. All he could do was wait for Sherlock to come back. He had to come back at some point.

 

That went on for a week. During the day, John was alone in the flat. He guessed Sherlock came back either during the night or when John was out for work.

Five days into this isolation, John gave in and phoned Mycroft. Not even a case from Lestrade seemed to interest him enough. It was through Mycroft that he learned of Irene’s fate and how close she came to beating him.

“Look after him,” Mycroft had insisted. “He may not be in the best of shape upon his return.”

John wasn’t sure how Irene fit into Sherlock’s mind, he couldn’t possibly know that. But some part of Sherlock had possibly admired her ambition and cleverness. Some part of him appreciated the distraction, that wasn’t hard to tell.

Sherlock couldn’t have possibly fallen in _love_ with Irene, could he? Maybe on some level he had, some intellectual level that went beyond sexuality and sensuality. To know she would be dead in a few months’ time had shaken him if his reaction to her death before had been anything to go on.

To have her betray him like that wasn’t something John was surprised to hear, but perhaps even Sherlock could be hurt by such a betrayal. He’d thought he was helping her; he didn’t even think about her using that information to deceive him in such a way. He’d been too distracted to do so.

Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t as cold and calloused as everyone assumed. John knew that. It was obvious every time he stroked Sherlock’s soft curls, every time he felt Sherlock melt against his side over just a simple touch. No, he wasn’t as insensitive as he portrayed. Did that mean he truly was heartbroken?

John honestly couldn’t say whether Sherlock would have been more upset over her betrayal, her complete manipulation of him and he’d _permitted_ her to, or his disappointment to discover just how _ordinary_ she’d been, how easily she’d succumb to her _heart_ , of all things.

John counted ten days before he even saw those dark curls over his upturned collar. It was the longest time he’d been gone, by far, the usual being two or three days at the most.

“Sherlock?” John glanced up from his laptop to catch the detective putting his coat up as if he’d only been gone an hour.

“John,” he said curtly.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“Do you want dinner?” John pushed the laptop off his legs and onto the nearby table. “I can make something, or we can do takeaway.”

“That’s fine.”

Before John could ask anything else, like what the hell he’d meant by ‘that’s fine,’ Sherlock was already closing his bedroom door behind him with a resounding click.

He returned about an hour later with Sherlock’s favourite from Angelo’s in plastic containers. Half expecting Sherlock to be gone again, John was somewhat surprised when Sherlock came out of his room when he called for him. Silently, he sat across from John on the strangely clean kitchen table.

About halfway through the meal, John laid his silverware down and glanced in Sherlock’s direction. “Do you, uh, want to…talk? About…Irene?” John asked quietly, as if a loud noise would frighten him.

“No,” he said curtly. “Not important.”

“Not import—Sherlock, you were gone for days.”

“Needed air.”

“No, Sherlock. You leave for an hour at most if you ‘need air.’ Not ten days.”

Sherlock fell silent again.

“It’s fine.” John sighed. It might just be that Sherlock didn’t _need_ help or to talk about this, as unlikely as that might be. Picking up his fork, he finished and cleaned up in silence while Sherlock sat with his hands laced together on the table, his elbows on the edge and his lips just barely touching his fingers.

John had barely touched the first step before he turned back and paused in the archway to the kitchen. “If you’d like, I mean to say it wouldn’t bother me, if you found yourself, well, in my bed tonight.” Feeling an unusual, uncomfortable warmth in his face, he took his leave, the offer hanging in the air behind him.

That night, Sherlock didn’t pause to check John’s breathing patterns before opening the door and all but _plopping_ his lithe frame onto John’s mattress as if it were his own bed. Turning to face John, he pulled the unused covers over his torso and behind his back. This time, he was met with John’s soft eyes. Before he even needed to reach out to John, John placed his hand on Sherlock’s side, the place where his torso curved while he laid on his side.

“I understand,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Understand what?” John flexed his fingers against the thin fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. He could feel the warm skin just under the surface.

“You bring people into your bed to have sex. That’s why you don’t want me—didn’t want me here without your permission.”

“Sure, Sherlock.” John didn’t feel up to explaining common decency to Sherlock; he had to work early in the morning.

“I don’t want sex. Just…comfort. Therefore, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“If it was, I wouldn’t have invited you.” John moved his hand from Sherlock’s side to the soft head on John’s opposing pillow. He watched Sherlock’s blue-green eyes fall closed with a stifled sigh. His fingers raked slowly through the slightly damp strands of hair. They curled around his fingers, bouncing from his knuckles back against Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered as John shifted closer so he could comfortably rest his forearm on Sherlock’s shoulder.

John let his fingers fall down behind Sherlock’s covered ear. Sherlock shuddered slightly as John ran his fingers over the place behind his ear. Sensitive, then, John thought pleasantly. He could only imagine the response he’d get if he were to press his lips against that spot.

Sherlock’s leg shifted forward until his knee was pressed into John’s thigh. John wasn’t sure which one of them moved after that, but they both ended up in the middle of the bed, pressed together in some sort of embrace. Both of John’s hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair while Sherlock buried his face into the warm crook of John’s neck. His breath felt hot against John’s skin.

The offending knee that had pressed into John’s thigh was pushed between John’s open legs, between his knees. John let his right leg slide comfortably over Sherlock’s left just to be closer to him.

John became hyper-aware of Sherlock’s lips on his neck, just resting against his skin, not kissing. His nose bumped up under his jaw and dark locks brushed his cheek. He felt Sherlock’s abdomen and chest against his own torso. A light, quiet moan felt hot and damp against his neck while John massaged Sherlock’s scalp.

“Sorry, sorry,” John murmured, his face hot again. Sherlock didn’t respond and John wasn’t entirely sure he had heard him. He really didn’t want to pull away from Sherlock but he wasn’t sure how Sherlock would respond to his obvious and growing arousal.

“Biological response to proximity,” Sherlock murmured after a few tense, awkward moments. John could feel the wet slide of Sherlock’s lips on his skin; his lips hadn’t left John’s neck.

“Don’t mind it,” John continued stroking Sherlock’s head.

“ ‘m not.”

John fell asleep to the steady rhythm of Sherlock’s breathing. The warmth around him, Sherlock’s arms loosely holding them together, was a welcome comfort after ten days of having the flat to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

John woke up to Sherlock watching him. It was enough to startle him to full awareness quite abruptly.

“I think I liked it better when you were gone in the morning,” John teased.

“Oh. Sorry.” Sherlock made to get up but John caught him by the side and pulled him back.

“A joke. Stay.”

Sherlock rolled back onto his side to face John. He leaned forward to catch John’s lips in a kiss. Well, if he hadn’t been awake before, he certainly was now. The first kiss was awkward. Sherlock’s lips merely pressed against John’s own and froze in place, holding still way too long, neither man responding to the feel of the other’s lips. Both of their eyes remained open, Sherlock wanting to witness every moment of this kiss and John too stunned to do anything more than stare forward.

By the time Sherlock retreated, John had regained some sort of sense and wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck to pull him back for a proper snog. This time around, John led the kiss, moving naturally against Sherlock’s luscious lips.

John’s lips parting encouraged Sherlock’s to part, a tongue suddenly sliding wetly against his own. ‘Too much, too much,’ Sherlock’s mind yelled at him. Before he could get his hands to respond to push himself away, John was retreating to bite his lower lip. Ending with a closed mouth kiss, John pulled away, an apology on the tip of his tongue.

“That was new,” Sherlock wiped the remaining saliva off his lips. “Wet.”

“Not good?”

“Good. Just…wet,” he repeated.

“Less tongue then. Next time.”

“Next time?” Sherlock let the corners of his mouth raise slightly.

“Unless you don’t want…”

“I do.”

“Good. Right, good.” John nodded. After realizing his hand was still placed on the back of Sherlock’s neck, John brought his hand back to his own side. “So, kissing? We’re kissing now?”

“We’ve kissed before, John.”

“Kissed, yeah. But we’ve never done _that_ before.”

“No, I suppose we haven’t.”

John indulged himself and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, like he was used to doing before he left the flat occasionally. Sherlock laid his head back down on the pillow.

“If you ever want to talk—“

“I don’t. I won’t.”

“About Irene. Or anything, really—“

“John, do shut up.”

John nodded and gave Sherlock’s head a short, gentle scratch before pushing himself up into a standing position. He rolled his shoulders to loosen up the stiff joints then headed for the loo. Sherlock lounged in bed for as long as he could but John’s bed got significantly colder without John’s presence.

 

They settled into a routine. When Sherlock needed sleep, he crawled into John’s bed. This happened about two or three nights a week. For those first few weeks, whenever John said anything about her, Sherlock merely left the room. John learned not to ask. The weeks began putting distance between what had occurred between Irene and Sherlock until it wasn’t even in the back of John’s mind. He was sure Sherlock was still thinking about it. While he could compartmentalise things like that, he did leave himself a moment or two to just think. He still didn’t know why _The Woman_ had had such an effect on him.

It was four months after, while John was away at a medical conference, that Sherlock checked up on her for the fifth and final time. She had managed to get herself caught by a small but strong underground terrorist cell. Really, it could have been more challenging. It took him all of a day to break into the base and take someone’s identity. The fabric covering the face certainly made it significantly easier.

They allowed her to send one final text, giving Sherlock away. He still hadn’t changed the alert sound and hearing it once more was both a reminder and a comfort, almost like John’s lips against his forehead. Oh, he wished he could tell John about this but no one could know her life had been spared. Instead, he enjoyed the thrill of the fight and running off with The Woman with one last request: No more texts.

He was sure she’d break that request at one point or another, but telling her not to contact him anymore, that he wouldn’t be able to contact her (not that he did so anyway), it was more difficult than he thought it would be. Remembering her sentiment, he imagined it was harder on her hearing it.

With that, he bid her adieu and was back at Baker Street long before John returned from his conference to find Sherlock in John’s bed at three in the morning. Before John even got comfortable, Sherlock was pressed against his chest, his face against John’s neck. It was amazing, during the day, John wouldn’t imagine Sherlock wanting to be embraced like this, but the moment the sun went down, the moment they were tucked away together in John’s bed, Sherlock was as close as he could get to John.

“Comfort,” Sherlock always said. That was the extent of their conversations on their intimacy. Sherlock would ignore anything else.

 

Two days later, John witnesses Mycroft waiting in the rain under a black umbrella in front of Speedy’s. John really wanted to get inside the flat, but having Mycroft personally visit, something must have been wrong and it surely involved Sherlock. Shaking off the rain, he followed Mycroft into the small diner.

It had been months since Irene Adler’s name had been mentioned, weeks since it had even crossed his mind. But that turned out to be the reason for Mycroft’s sudden appearance. “She made her way to America, Witness Protection Program. But he can never see her again,” Mycroft explained.

“Why would he care? He despised her in the end. Won’t even mention her by name. Just, ‘The Woman.’ ”

“Is that loathing or a salute? The one woman who matters,” Mycroft asked with a slight head tilt. Even he wasn’t sure about Sherlock’s _feelings_ at this point. Then again, anything regarding sentiment seemed to lose any significance to Mycroft. With Sherlock who felt something like that differently than an average person, it became even more of a mystery.

“He’s not like that. He doesn’t feel things that way,” John said. It was never that easy with Sherlock. “I don’t think so,” John added.

“My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted. At times, he wasn’t even sure Sherlock _had_ a metaphorical heart, yet other times proved the exact opposite.

“Neither do I.”

“He’ll be okay with never seeing her again. He’ll be fine.” John nodded. Sherlock had to be fine with it. Even with the option to see her having been available before, Sherlock didn’t. So this would be no different, John believed. Of course, knowing Sherlock meant otherwise, the option being cut off might actually encourage him to go in search of her, the child he was. But John didn’t think he would.

“I agree. That’s why I’ve decided to tell him that.”

“Instead of what?” John asked apprehensively.

“She’s dead. She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded.”

“It was definitely her?”

“I was thorough this time. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don’t think he was on hand, do you?” John thought back; Sherlock hadn’t left London in the last six months, he was sure of it. “So, what should we tell Sherlock?” Mycroft gave John the option. Without saying a word, John took the folder and walked the very short distance to their flat next door. Mycroft remained in the diner.

He climbed the stairs somewhat slowly, still debating. It would be easier to say Irene was alive, to let Sherlock believe that she had made it out alive. But at the same time, that gave him unnecessary hope if he still cared about her. It would be easier to explain why he couldn’t see her again if he just told Sherlock the truth about her death.

In the end, he hadn’t really decided until about two seconds before he told Sherlock.

“Hi,” John said nervously. “It’s about Irene Adler.”

That made Sherlock look up from his microscope. “Well?” Sherlock prodded. “Has something happened? Has she come back?”

John hated seeing that look. On the surface, it looked similar to disinterest, but the fact that he was asking showed anything but. He was almost eager. “No, no. She’s…I bumped into Mycroft downstairs, he had to take a call,” John explained.

“Is she back in London?” Sherlock repeated.

“No. She’s, uh…” Dead. She’s dead. John was silently berating himself for not being able to say two simple words.

Sherlock got up from his chair and put himself into John’s space. The gaze John received seemed to inform John that Sherlock already knew the truth. He was waiting for John to make up his mind.

“She’s in America,” John decided. Sherlock wasn’t a child, but this was easier for John to say. This would be the truth between them.

“America?” Sherlock had a curious tone and returned to the microscope as if looking for something to occupy his hands.

“Yep, got herself on the Witness Protection Scheme, apparently,” John let the lie roll easily off his tongue. “Did you want the file?” John was sure the file contained all lies, but it provided proof of her surviving in America.

“No, but I will have the phone, actually.” He’d gone back to looking through the lens of the microscope.

“There’s nothing on it anymore, it’s been stripped,” John said. There would be nothing of use left on the phone, surely Sherlock knew this.

“I know, but I,” Sherlock faltered for just a moment, “I’ll still have it.” Sherlock raised his hand without taking his eyes off the lens in front of him.

“I’ve got to give this back to Mycroft, you can’t keep it,” John placated, as if soothing a child. If it were up to hm, he’d have no problem with this request, but it wasn’t his place to do so.

“Sherlock,” John tried again when the hand demanded the phone again. “I have to give this back to Mycroft, it’s the government’s now. I couldn’t possibly.”

“Please.” Sherlock’s hand reached out further, emphasising his plea.

It wasn’t as though a simple ‘please’ was John’s breaking point, but the insistent tone, the low voice all but pleading with him, that certainly brought him close. Sherlock asking nicely wasn’t something to be taken lightly; he didn’t often say ‘please.’ John couldn’t remember hearing him sound so vulnerable. Mycroft would be able to explain the mobile away. It had been stripped after all, what harm could it be?

John could almost laugh at the irony: Irene had found a way to make Sherlock beg.

 

That night, like a handful of others, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John still had a slight fear that Sherlock would decide to be gone for days on end, but he was back at the kitchen table when John woke the next morning.

Sherlock withdrew from John for some time after that. John even got his bed entirely to himself for about a month. During this time, Sherlock decided to give up on nicotine patches entirely, which meant John had to cope with a very irritated and whiny consulting detective. With cases being a six, at best, it wasn’t a good time at Baker Street. The nights Sherlock would stay out all night, he would come back calmer and more like himself. If it had been anyone else, John would say he had a lover he saw on these occasions, but this was Sherlock. Even if he _did_ , miraculously, have a lover, he still came back to the flat in the morning and practically preened under the usual forehead kiss.

It was fine until Sherlock himself decided he should get rid of the cigarettes and nicotine patches with John’s strong approval. Well, approval. John knew a caseless, completely sober Sherlock would be cranky, he just didn’t realise just _how_ cranky.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised when Sherlock returned to the flat covered in blood. Actually, he was more surprised at Sherlock getting _back_ to the flat looking like that. Another night out, then. The case turned out to be a three, a disappointment, really.

He’d fallen asleep for a few hours after his shower. It had been a quiet few hours and John was able to write up a draft of Sherlock’s latest case that somehow needed him to sacrifice a farm animal. He woke up in a frenzy, his dressing gown fluttering behind him as he frantically searched the flat. That was the second time Mr. I’ve-never-begged-for-anything-in-my-life Holmes begged for mercy.

Luckily, Henry appeared with a somewhat interesting case. John would have insisted on Sherlock taking it whether the case was interesting or not just to get him out of the flat and his mind off nicotine.

The car ride down was filled with Sherlock’s musings; John didn’t even try to keep up. He was sure parts of sentences didn’t make it past Sherlock’s mind or got lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth. Certain phrases seemed to have no connection. 

Upon reaching the inn, they began their investigation into the odd happenings.

 

“Mycroft’s name literally opens doors. We’ve got about twenty minutes before they realise something’s wrong.”

The ID card was swiped and they were admitted with no issue. John felt rather comfortable in this environment, despite being intruders. Sherlock, as per usual, took leadership of the situation.

“What is it, are we in trouble?” the younger officer asked.

“Are we in trouble, _sir_ ,” Sherlock corrected. It’d been a while since John had heard someone sound so commanding. To hear _Sherlock’s_ commanding tone, it certainly made John feel a bit warmer.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” the officer responded. “It’s just, we don’t get inspected here. You see, sir, it just doesn’t happen.”

“Ever heard of a spot check?” John couldn’t let Sherlock have all the fun. “Captain John Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” John flipped open his wallet to flash his own identification.

“Sir,” the young man saluted respectfully. John returned the gesture. Sherlock couldn’t help but to glance impressively at John after the two men in front of them had turned their backs. John taking charge was a rare occurrence, but one that Sherlock found to be quite enjoyable.

“Nice touch,” Sherlock commented.

“Haven’t pulled rank in ages,” John said with a slight grin.

“Enjoy it?” Sherlock asked knowingly.

“Oh yeah.” John stifled his grin before Corporal Lyons turned around. They got a quick tour, ending on Dr. Stapleton, the owner of Bluebell, the rabbit gone missing. Sherlock hadn’t planned on connecting those points.

“Did we just break into a military base to investigate a _rabbit_?” John sounded angry.

“Twenty-three minutes. Mycroft’s getting slow.” Sherlock said with that thrilled smirk of his that usually meant trouble. “Keep walking,” Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him along. It was times like this that John hated the height difference.

In this particular instance, Sherlock began talking his way out of the situation. It was in part thanks to a lab technician that vouched for Sherlock’s fake identity. John really didn’t know how Sherlock managed to get so lucky sometimes, but he was thankful for it when it happened.

They followed up with Henry after that entire ordeal at the laboratory. Sherlock had decided to inform Henry of his plan to, as John put it, use him as bait. Needless to say, Henry and John weren’t pleased with Sherlock, but went along with the plan anyway.

They had about an hour until the sun set and night would be upon them. John, having barely slowed down all day, insisted on dinner, so they returned to the inn for a quick one. John had learned by this point not to pester Sherlock into eating, rather he enjoyed watching Sherlock watch those around them. His facial expressions were usually kept neutral; a few things surprised him when it came to human activities. But he always appeared so keen to his environment when forced to sit still.

That night in the forest, John had gotten separated from Henry and Sherlock. He probably shouldn’t have left someone like Henry in Sherlock’s care, but something had pulled his attention away. So, without John, they continued on towards the Hollow. The area wasn’t anything special, slightly eerie, but nothing out of the ordinary. Something hadn’t felt right, Sherlock noticed. He wasn’t exactly sure, but his pulse rate was elevated more than it should have been and he felt anxious. 

Sherlock, oddly enough, could not only see Henry’s apprehension to this particular area, but could feel it himself. That was odd.

Excited by the turn of events, he made his way down the steep slope into the Hollow. Upon hearing the ghastly howling, Henry refused to go any further. Sherlock could feel his own heart pounding in his chest, as if he’d been running the streets of London with John at his heels.

Except something was different. He felt…fear. A simple noise had brought about such a sense of dread. _That_ was new. He’d never once been _terrified_ in his adult life.

A shadowy figure towards the top of the Hollow did nothing to soothe his pounding heart. If anything, it made it worse. The adrenaline spike was uncalled for; a few footprints, a sound, and a shadow? There had to be something more to this.

Sherlock didn’t _run_ from the Hollow, of course not. He retreated for the moment, however. His head was fuzzy and he couldn’t think clearly. He needed to be anywhere else to make sense of this.

John ran into Henry and Sherlock on their retreat. It wasn’t hard to notice there was something off about Sherlock’s behaviour but Sherlock wouldn’t talk on their drive back. Henry mostly stayed silent, save for the soft whimpering sound he occasionally let out.

Upon his return to the inn, Sherlock requested a drink. Sherlock didn’t like the way alcohol fogged his system and mind, slowed everything down. But at that moment, that appeared to be what he needed. Alcohol was the most accessible depressant at this point in time.

He was on his second by the time John returned to the inn. The warmth of the fire and the whiskey in his system hadn’t done much to call him.

“I saw it, John,” Sherlock admitted. It wasn’t so much that he wanted John to believe him, he just needed John to know what he’d seen.

“Look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this.” John had seen Sherlock manipulate those around them so many times, he entirely sure Sherlock’s reactions were genuine. “Okay, now you, of all people, can’t just—Let’s just stick to what we know, yes?”

“Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever’s left, however improbably, must be true.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look at me. I’m afraid, John. Afraid,” Sherlock said curiously as he watched his own hand continue to shake. “I’ve always been able to keep myself distant. Been able to divorce myself from _feelings_.” Useless sentimentality. “But, you see, body’s betraying me,” Sherlock muttered, slightly irritated at his own lack of control and curious for the exact same reason. “Interesting, yes, emotions.”

“Yeah, all right, Spock,” John all but rolled his eyes at the dramatics. “Just, take it easy.” John didn’t want to think Sherlock had somehow gotten his hands on cocaine out here, but he was acting pretty strung out.

“You’ve been pretty wired lately, you know you have. I think you’ve just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up.” He was trying to talk him down.

“Worked up?” Sherlock looked absolutely offended.

“It was dark and scary,” John placated.

“Me? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Sherlock?” John watched Sherlock attempt to control his breathing. His shaking had become worse.

“There’s nothing wrong with me! Do you understand?!” He sounded upset and defensive, which wasn’t new to John, but the explosiveness of his outburst was certainly less common. Sherlock wanted to be left alone but he also didn’t want John to leave. Lowering his voice, he offered, “You want me to prove it?”

Sherlock got so worked up he practically told John to fuck off. He hadn’t meant to, but whatever had been clouding his mind and affecting his body was pushing him in ways he wasn’t used to. Usually he wasn’t so sarcastic, not to John at least.

“Yeah. Okay,” John said with that calm, angry demeanour that meant he was close to snapping. “Why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend.”

“I don’t have _friends_ ,” Sherlock insisted bitterly. No, he didn’t have peers or friends; he was alone. He had to be.

“No,” John agreed in a quiet, hurt tone. “I wonder why.” John left Sherlock to let himself cool down outside in the brisk night air. Perhaps Sherlock just needed some time to himself.

John’s night was quite busy after that exchange with Sherlock. He found the source of the Morse code he’d discovered near the Hollow to be completely unconnected. He’d barely started making his way back to the inn when Sherlock texted him about Henry’s therapist. This would have been a wonderful lead, had it not been for Dr. Frankland’s interruption.

After Louise’s insinuation, John didn’t argue or attempt to talk his way out of it. Hell, he didn’t even bother pointing out that he wasn’t gay. Truly an awful night. The only respite was returning to the inn, to a comfortable, warm bed without Sherlock’s presence taking up half the space. John didn’t expect to see him that night but then again, Sherlock wasn’t always that predictable.


	10. Chapter 10

By the following morning, the effects had worn off on Sherlock’s body. He didn’t bother heading up to their room, aware that he’d need to apologize to John. There was only so much of Sherlock’s behaviour John could take.

“Get anywhere with the Morse code?”

“Nah.” John really didn’t want to discuss this with Sherlock. He seemed to only be humouring John anyhow.

“U, M, Q, R, A, yes? Umqra…” he pondered.

“Nothing. Look, forget it. I thought I was onto something, I wasn’t.”

“Sure?”

“Uh, yeah.”  
“How about Louise Mortimer, did you get anywhere with her?”

“No,” John said curtly.

“Too bad. But did you get any information?”

How rare, Sherlock making a joke, especially one about sex. He wasn’t as clueless when it came to sex as people seemed to think. He understood the motions behind it, emotional and physical, and when he didn’t, he didn’t hesitate to ask John. Normally, it’d amuse John, but he really wasn’t in the mood for being teased. “You’re being funny now?”

“Thought it might break the ice, a bit.”

“Funny doesn’t suit you. Let’s stick to ice.”

So, John wasn’t happy. An apology would be required, then. “John…”

“It’s fine.”

Even Sherlock, who didn’t always pick up on verbal cues in a social setting, could tell it was most definitely not fine. “Wait, what happened last night, something happened to me, something I’ve never experienced before.” It didn’t necessarily excuse his behaviour, but maybe he could get John to understand why he’d been even more of an arse than usual.

“Yes, you said. Fear, Sherlock Holmes got scared, you said.”

“No, no, no. It was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night.”

“You can’t actually believe that you saw some kind of monster?”

“No, I can’t believe that. But I did see it. So, the question is how? How?”

“Yes. Yeah, right, good,” John nodded. “So you’ve got something to go on, then. Good luck with that.” John shook off Sherlock’s grip on his arm and continued walking away. Sherlock had to admit, there was some twinge of feeling at being rejected by John, someone who he thought would always be there, right next to him. But, then again, he couldn’t expect John to keep shrugging off things.

“Listen,” Sherlock called after him. “What I said before, John, I meant it. I don’t have _friends_. I’ve just got one.” The only person who put up with him in any of his moods, the friend who supported him through caseless boredom, who supported him through sobriety. He couldn’t ask for a better friend, nor would he want anyone else as a friend.

“Right.” John supposed that was as close as he was going to get to Sherlock apologizing. So, this would be as close as he’d get to saying Sherlock was forgiven. As though John would leave so easily. He just needed some time to himself.

“John. John! Oh, you are amazing! You are fantastic!” Sherlock began chasing after him.

“Yes, all right. You don’t have to overdo it.”

“You may not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable.”  
That would be as close to a compliment as Sherlock would get. This only added to the irritation of being referred to as Sherlock’s personal assistant.

“Cheers. What?”

“Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.” How Sherlock managed to simultaneously sound so narcissistic while both complimenting and putting John down, John will never cease to be amazed by.

“Hang on, you were saying sorry a minute ago. Don’t spoil it. Go on. What have I done that’s so bloody stimulating?”

“What if it’s not a word, what if it’s individual letters?”

“You think it’s an acronym?”

“Absolutely no idea. What the hell are you doing here?” Leave it to Mycroft to send Lestrade to check up on his brother. However, someone with the title of Detective Inspector came in rather useful.

The case had taken an interesting turn after that meeting with Lestrade. Sherlock had a theory to test, a couple of them actually. The chemical used seemed to be nonlethal, just enhanced the body’s response to stimuli, particularly fear and doubt. Had there been any risk to it, he wouldn’t have tested it on John so easily. He would have thought about it for a moment more at least.

It wasn’t the sugar, as he’d initially thought. Reluctantly depending on Mycroft’s influence, he was able to test out the second theory; the research lab. This panned out better than he’d thought and while the sound of John’s voice pestered him in the back of his mind about ‘This is not how you treat friends!’ he quite enjoyed the success.

It was still unclear where the chemical originated from, why Sherlock was affected long before John was. If it wasn’t the sugar, it had to be something else that only affected Henry and not all of Baskerville, something administered to Henry over the course of several years to cause paranoia.

When Lestrade proved to be equally affected at the Hollow, Sherlock realized that was the primary source of the gaseous chemical. John’s steady hands in the face of adversity and that chemical within his system had impressed Sherlock, or it would have if he wasn’t fighting his own personal demons thanks to said chemical. While everyone else saw what they would say was a gigantic hound, Sherlock was faced with a body in front of him, reality blurring with delusion. In this moment, he realised he _was_ afraid, on some level. The mere image of Moriarty being so close to him, to John—again!—made his heart race. Logic suppressed by emotion and this bloody chemical mixture, Sherlock lost his composure.

Just as quickly, the haze cleared upon the reveal of the lab technician, Frankland. “Ooh, this case! Thank you, Henry. It’s been brilliant!” The adrenaline running through his system didn’t help to contain his sudden excitement but John’s glare certainly did.

It was a good thing, that adrenaline burst, Sherlock thought as he chased the lab technician. Although, perhaps being a little further back from the minefield would have been better. It was an explosive end to a ‘brilliant case.’

On the drive back to the inn, Sherlock had noticed a slight tremor in John’s hands. It wasn’t unusual in times of duress, but something told him John wouldn’t be sleeping well tonight, not after what they witnessed.

They made it back to the inn and headed right up to their room. Sherlock headed into the loo to change while John stripped down to his shirt and pants. He tried laying down but he was aware of his shaking hands and sudden re-emergence of the pain in his bad leg.

Sherlock hesitated at the doorway for a minute. Only when John shifted did Sherlock decide to join him under the covers. They laid quietly, John on his side facing away from Sherlock and Sherlock on his back. John’s breathing didn’t slow after ten minutes, nor twenty minutes. As it approached half an hour, Sherlock turned onto his side towards John and placed a hand on his hip.

“All right?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” John shifted to his back and stared up at the white ceiling. Sherlock closed the few inches of empty space between them and plastered himself to John’s side, his cheek resting on John’s shoulder. The hand that had been on his hip found its way to John’s other shoulder. He laid his palm hesitantly over John’s old bullet wound. John brought his hand to Sherlock’s forearm then slid down to his hand. His fingers closed around Sherlock’s palm, unsure of whether to pull his hand away or hold it still. He decided the latter; the warmth was comforting. Some more shifting allowed John to get his other arm under Sherlock in a sort of comfortable way.

“Did you get what you needed from Mortimer?” Sherlock found himself asking out of his own curiosity and desire to change the topic.

“Are you asking if I slept with her?” John dropped his hand from Sherlock’s on his shoulder.

“Yes. Did you?”

“No.”

“You haven’t been with anyone for a while.”

“And how would you know?”

Sherlock brought his gaze up to John’s face, his chin digging into John’s chest. “Do you want the short version?”

John rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Not now. But it will.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I…” Sherlock swallowed his pride. “I seem to have a slight, _slight_ ,” he emphasised, “reaction to thinking about you. With _her_ ,” he said with a highly displeased tone.

“I think you mean, you were jealous.”

“I was not _jealous_ ,” he said defensively. John looked down at him until Sherlock turned his head back to the side. “Not jealous,” he muttered.

“Sherlock, that gnawing feeling in your gut—“

“Just ate something bad.”

“General unhappiness, short temper. Are you telling me you’ve never been jealous—Of course you haven’t.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Repeating it won’t make it true,” John teased. He ran his fingertips through Sherlock’s curls in a soothing manner.

“It’s illogical.” That, John realised, was as close to an admission as he was going to get. “It’s unfair and selfish of me.”

“Sherlock. You _are_ selfish, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“But I can’t ask you to give up something you so clearly enjoy.”

John let him ramble for a few moments to allow himself to process what Sherlock was talking about.

“How long have you been holding _that_ in?” John waited for Sherlock to run himself out of breath to ask.

“Never had to worry about it before,” Sherlock mumbled.

John gently pulled the dark curls away from Sherlock’s face, back and behind his ear. They bounced back into place and John repeated the action a couple more times.

“What is it you want, Sherlock?” John thought about his phrasing then quickly amended, “What is it you want from me?”

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding frustrated.

“Yes, you do.”

He huffed in that dramatic way he was known for. John continued to stroke his hair. “I’m not enough. I know that already. So, it’s illogical of me to ask for all of you when I can’t—won’t give you everything.” He breathed out in relief.

“Do you want a relationship?”

“Of sorts.”

“And you think now is a good time to have this talk?”

“Is there a better time?”

John shrugged as best he could in his position under Sherlock. “I suppose now is a good a time as any. A relationship of sorts?”

“I like this.” Sherlock poked John’s shoulder, above the old wound. John winced anyway. “I understand why humans crave more. The intimacy and the reward pathways of sex and resulting orgasm.”

Never had John had this type of discussion with partners, never did he expect to. Every day spent with Sherlock Holmes was an adventure. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

“No, I do.”

“You have little interest in sex.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“Really?” John asked in surprise.

“Don’t get so excited. It’s been fifteen years.”

“Jeeesus,” John murmured.

“Besides, the act itself is…asinine. It’s crass.”

John shrugged. Agree to disagree.

“Even _snogging_ ,” he said the word with the same displeasure as he had mentioning Mortimer.

“You don’t like kissing?” John couldn’t help but think about all the times they’d shared chaste, quick kisses to more in depth, tongue-on-tongue action. He’d noticed Sherlock’s hesitance with anything involving tongues, but he chalked it up to Sherlock’s inexperience.

“Not usually. It’s wet and _too much_. I can’t focus and it’s unpleasant.”

“You’re not supposed to focus,” John said with a quiet chuckle. Sherlock responded with a glare. John soothed the lines between his eyes with a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “Okay, so, snogging’s out.”

“Not entirely,” Sherlock was quick to argue. “Just, not too much.”

“That’s not very specific.” John returned to carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“No, it’s not. But you’ll know if it’s too much.”

“Sherlock, I have an idea of what I’m getting into.”

“You say that now, but what will it be like in a month, or six?”

“Do you distrust me that much?”

“Distrust—No, it’s not that I distrust you. I don’t want you miserable or unhappy or want something from me that I won’t do.”

“Sherlock. I appreciate you being upfront about it, but sex isn’t everything.”

“But it’s something. With normal people—“

“Well, there’s your mistake. You’re comparing yourself to ordinary people. Do you really believe the great Sherlock Holmes would settle for an ordinary relationship?”

Sherlock huffed again. “You talk a lot about sex to be in a relationship without.”

“So, I’ll get reacquainted with my hand,” John joked. He brought his free hand up to pat Sherlock’s cheek, thought better of it, then let his hand fall back onto his stomach with a cheeky smile. “I care about you, Sherlock. If you want all of me, you’ve got it. Hell, you’ve had it.”

At that, Sherlock surged up to meet John’s lips with his own. John ended the kiss quickly with a soft laugh.

“Budge over a bit. My arm is numb.”

Sherlock rested his head on the other pillow and John turned onto his side to meet Sherlock’s rather intense gaze.

“You should get some sleep. You haven’t slept much since we got here,” John murmured, resting a hand on Sherlock’s side.

“Not tired.” Even as he was saying that, he was nuzzling into John’s warmth and stifling a yawn. John slid his hand up Sherlock’s back, under his arm, and held him.

“Liar.”

“Mm, maybe. You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah?” John said—asked, confused.

“You’re afraid to sleep. Dreams,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled by the fabric of John’s shirt and sleep threatening to take him the moment he gave in.

“I’m fine,” John assured him.

“Promise?”

“Hm, yep.” John resumed stroking and Sherlock was lulled into sleep, his doubts having been quelled by their conversation.


	11. Chapter 11

Upon their return to Baker Street, John found his bed occupied at night with one affectionate consulting detective. The ‘honeymoon phase’ as John would normally put it led to sharing of spaces more often than not. Sherlock still had his moods that John knew better than to disrupt but almost every night, for at least a couple of hours, Sherlock would settle in beside John. It was good to know Sherlock was sleeping at least a couple hours on top of sharing meals with John.

John used Sherlock’s affectionate behaviour to give him incentives for taking care of himself. Sleeping was easy, they’d cuddle in bed until Sherlock had no choice but to fall asleep. Eating, taking quick breaks between long periods in front of the microscope, and not binding for long periods of time were all rewarded with cuddles on the settee.

Sherlock would sprawl across his lap for hours at a time. John was sure knees poking him in the abdomen and chest couldn’t have been comfortable but he wouldn’t move. So, John would place his laptop or book on Sherlock’s back and both would be content for hours.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate to tell John if something was too much. At times, they’d both get carried away, especially if John found something Sherlock had liked. John discovered if he nuzzled or even just breathed on that spot just behind Sherlock’s ear, he made the most erotic noise, which he took advantage of frequently. Kissing was better done in short intervals separated by less intense kisses placed anywhere but Sherlock’s mouth. 

With some experimenting, John had discovered Sherlock rather enjoyed kisses to his neck. It happened to be one night they’d taken things a little further than normal. Sherlock had been lying on his stomach on the settee when John had playfully sat on his lower back upon returning home. Sherlock had shifted beneath him to lay on his back instead and somehow John had slipped down between Sherlock’s thighs which had a tight grip on his waist.

John broke off the kiss when he felt Sherlock begin to fidget in his telling way. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s cheeks, nose, and forehead instead. Trailing downwards, he pressed soft, slow kisses along his jawline to that spot behind his ear. The sound Sherlock made had John feeling warm in the face, as it usually did. But Sherlock no longer shied away from John when John became aroused. It happens, Sherlock had said. If it became too much, Sherlock would say so and John would stop.

But he hadn’t said stop yet so John kept going. Past his jawline, John pressed kisses to his soft-looking, tempting neck. John had gotten about two kisses down when Sherlock had tilted his head back against the armrest, allowing John more access. Taking this as permission, he moved towards the hollow of Sherlock’s neck. He could feel Sherlock’s slightly elevated breathing and decided to slow down, just in case. Pressing a slow, somewhat wet kiss to a spot just right of where his Adam’s apple would be, Sherlock _moaned_. His legs that had been held against John’s sides firmly had opened just enough to allow John to slip down a little further. Another kiss to that spot resulted in Sherlock arching up into John’s body, pressing their bodies together from chest to groin. John moved a hand down to Sherlock’s hip quickly and pressed him back down with a stifled moan.

“Oh, do that again. Again,” he demanded, a hand clasping at the back of John’s head.

“ ‘s good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock arched up again upon John sucking on that spot. John could feel the moan rather than hear it. John knew the sounds and actions of a man aroused and Sherlock was just that; a man quite aroused. That thought had John reeling. Oh, it was intoxicating to think Sherlock was quite viscerally _aroused_. John paused to just take in the rare sight.

“You…you stopped..?” Sherlock lifted his head, eyes unfocused and pupils dilated. There was a dark red beginning to colour his cheeks.

“You’re—“

“Quite so, yes. Asexual doesn’t mean I don’t get aroused.”

“Right. So…we stop?”

“If it’s quite all right with you, I’d rather not.” Sherlock lifted his head to press a kiss to his partner’s lips. His hands pulled John slightly forward so he could wrap his long legs around John’s waist. Deciding he didn’t care for that position, he lowered his legs back down to frame John’s sides.

John returned to Sherlock’s neck to lick over the light pink spot that marked where he’d sucked. A soft bite resulted in another sound from Sherlock, sounding less pleased.

“Too much there,” he brought his hand back to the back of John’s head and guided him to the other side where John began again with slow kisses. He took his time building up to a gentle bite followed by light sucking further down towards his clavicle. “That’s enough of that,” Sherlock said in a breathless tone as he brought John’s face back up level with his own. “Here, switch spots with me.”

With some manoeuvring, John found himself beneath Sherlock with him fitted snugly between John’s legs. Repeating John’s actions almost perfectly, Sherlock pressed kisses down to John’s neck, occasionally allowing the tip of his tongue to flick against John’s skin. After some time, he seemed to grow bored of the repeated actions and leaned back from John. His hands raked down John’s chest and over his abdomen where his shirt had slipped up to expose flesh. John watched Sherlock’s gaze slip downwards curiously. He let him go at his own pace. He found himself holding his breath as Sherlock’s hands paused at his waistband. Slowly he slid a hand down John’s zip, hesitant but curious. John’s breath came out as a sharp exhale. His touch was maddening soft and not nearly enough.

“Is this…is this okay?” Sherlock looked back up to John’s face before dropping his gaze quickly back to what he was doing.

“A little harder,” John bit out. He shakily brought his hand down on top of Sherlock’s on his zip and guided his strokes through his trousers and pants.

“It doesn’t hurt?” Sherlock tilted his head as he met John’s unfocused gaze.

John shook his head. “Not…not yet. God, that’s good. If you need to stop…”

“Not yet.”

“Really.” John was amazed. He almost thought it was a dream, a very hot dream, one he’d wake up panting and sweaty from with Sherlock next to him, but the sensations were too sharp, too real for him to be dreaming. Sherlock was actually—reaching for his zip!

John kept a careful eye, as careful as he could manage in this state of arousal, on Sherlock’s reactions. Any hint of discomfort, he would remove himself, but Sherlock merely seemed curious. He was gentle in pulling open John’s trousers. Even gentler wrapping his fingers around the cotton and stroking John’s cock. It was absolutely maddening and the best thing John could have ever hoped for. He tried to resist the urge to cover Sherlock’s hand with his own to guide him again, but he caved quickly.

Eventually Sherlock grew tired of that as well. He hesitated a moment before lowering the waistband to John’s pants. _John_ had half a mind to stop this. Surely it was crossing boundaries Sherlock didn’t want crossed. Yet before John could say anything, Sherlock wrapped his long, beautiful fingers around John’s cock and stroked, his grip too soft, too gentle—‘not enough!’ what was left of John’s mind whined.

Once again, he lowered his hand to the top of Sherlock’s and guided him to grip more firmly. John felt himself throb and Sherlock loosened his grip in surprise.

“It’s okay,” John brought his other hand to Sherlock’s jaw. “Seriously, Sherlock. If you don’t want to—“

“John, I assure you, I’m capable of making my own decisions.”

He nodded in acknowledgement. “Okay. Okay.” He let his legs relax on either side of Sherlock as he guided Sherlock’s hand base to tip slowly. “That’s it. Long, smooth—yes,” John moaned as he let go of Sherlock’s hand. “Little harder towards the top. Just like that.”

Sherlock flushed at the praises. As he got more confident, his hand gradually moved quicker. It wasn’t enough to bring John to climax, but it was more than he’d ever imagined. It got to a point, however, where John couldn’t take much more, not without some sort of relief. Truthfully, he was surprised Sherlock hadn’t gotten bored and stopped by then.

He grabbed Sherlock by the wrist to get him to stop. “That’s enough.”

“But you haven’t finished.”

“I need a bit more…” John bit his tongue. He wasn’t sure how to phrase it without sounding ungrateful or insulting but he truly didn’t want to push Sherlock.

“Then show me,” Sherlock demanded petulantly.

“Come here,” John murmured as he dropped his hand down between them to stroke himself. Sherlock leaned over John’s body, holding himself up with a hand on either side of John’s shoulders. “You know what you can do?” John murmured as he bumped his nose against Sherlock’s.

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled deeply.

John nipped at Sherlock’s lips. “Kiss me.”

Sherlock found it more challenging to do so with John panting and breaking off kisses quickly. Sherlock allowed him to breathe only when he gave John’s lips a break to attack his neck with kisses instead.

“Are you close?” Sherlock broke off to ask. He felt he wasn’t helping much and it was beginning to feel too hot, too crowded, _too much_. John’s free hand slid from Sherlock’s shirt to pull his own up to his chest.

“Yes. Oh, yes,” John bit his lip. Sherlock nuzzled John’s neck then closed his mouth over John’s Adam’s apple and sucked. John’s right hand tightened on the hem of his shirt as he continued to hold it up out of the way. Sherlock felt John shudder beneath him, his legs tightening on Sherlock’s sides for a few seconds until he relaxed contently back against the settee.

Sherlock, breathing a sigh of relief, got up to retrieve a flannel from the loo for John. His head felt clouded but nowhere near as bad as it had been before, back in his twenties. It was still pushing limits even doing that much with John, but if he took it slow he could manage.

“Ta,” John murmured as he quickly cleaned himself off and pulled his clothes back in order. Sherlock had left him alone in favour of starting the kettle. John didn’t move from the settee but did sit up to watch Sherlock in the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” John asked after a few moments.

“Hm? Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That was a lot.”

“I suppose it was,” Sherlock admitted. “It’s fine. I wanted to. You wanted to, right? I should have asked…” Sherlock rambled nervously.

“Yeah,” John said with a slight smile to get Sherlock to quit worrying. “Of course I wanted to. I mean… That came out wrong. What I meant was… It was fine either way,” he settled on with a sigh. “Whatever makes you comfortable, love.”

They both paused at the pet name. Sherlock opened his mouth as if he was going to say something then closed it without a word.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“No, I like it. I think.”

They remained silent until Sherlock brought John a cup of tea. He sat on the opposite end and brought his legs up underneath him on the sofa. John casted him a concerned glance.

“It was fine, I promise,” Sherlock said in an exasperated tone. “I just need a break from all the touching. That _was_ a bit much for one day.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so this is a bit of an interlude chapter, fit sometime between Hounds of Baskerville and the Reichenbach Fall. Mostly just to show some more of their relationship. Lemme know if I missed any tags.
> 
> Edit: I'm working on rewriting a part of this chapter. Apologies for any inconvenience.

Every once in a while, Sherlock would give in and help John to climax. It wasn’t often and Sherlock had a fear of John getting tired of his lack of involvement but John kept assuring him it was fine, that what they were doing was more than sufficient.

John also became aware of several…kinks he hadn’t known he had. Sherlock’s gaze on him while he rubbed one off being one both men were okay with indulging in. That smirk combined with a sort of _fond_ look all directed at him, he felt absolutely loved. Sherlock’s voice, too, had a certain effect on an aroused John. It almost didn’t matter what he was talking about, although John’s favourite was Sherlock describing exactly how he’d solved a case. In this way, Sherlock got to show off, so he was content and John got off, so he was content.

John had asked on no more than two occasions if Sherlock had wanted reciprocation in some way or another. The first time had resulted in Sherlock leaving their bedroom in quite the hurry. He hadn’t seemed angry and John had thought he was just embarrassed for some reason. Still, when he heard the plucking at a violin, John decided Sherlock was better off alone at this point in time.

The second time, he made sure to assure Sherlock that it was all fine. Sherlock rarely even allowed John to remove his shirt, let alone any other articles of clothing during these acts. Sherlock had always been fully dressed in his expensive shirts and dress trousers when he initiated these acts. John could tell many times Sherlock, himself, had been aroused, but wouldn’t do much about it, at least not until he was alone in his room. At the mere mention of reciprocation, he fled the room and on that second (and last) occasion, the flat.

It took time before Sherlock would open up in this area to John. Slowly, he allowed John to see more and more of himself. John was astonished the first time Sherlock initiated one of these rare affairs in their shared bed, in his pyjamas. There was only one layer of fabric, a simple t-shirt, between John’s hands on his waist while Sherlock made his intentions quite clear, his thigh pressing firmly between John’s legs. When Sherlock’s shirt slipped up to expose a lot of his side and some of his abdomen, John trailed his hand up slowly, in a question. Just _touching_ , the skin-on-skin contact in this way, in this context, set John off.

This particular occasion took place long after the first fumbled experience. They’d long set up a sort of balance, Sherlock especially, finding a middle ground between too much for him and too little for John. But it was worth it, to spend this time with John, to share John’s bed, to have his company. John told him often how much he cared for his consulting detective. Every time he asked ‘Have you eaten today?’ ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Tea?’ Sherlock heard him. Every time he sat absentmindedly stroking Sherlock hair or dropped his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder, he heard John. He was cared for and he was _happy_ with John.

This particular occasion, Sherlock felt content—warm, happy—almost euphoric with his head rested on John’s chest. So much so, he let his guard down and slid a hand into his pyjama bottoms. John, astonished still, didn’t say a word, just pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curls.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock rumbled, his eyes closed and his hand moving beneath the duvet, slowly, subtly, as John was embarrassed to notice. “You had to know I got off occasionally.”

“You’re usually not so open about it.”

“Mh. Hormones,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Oh?”

“Injection usually increases my libido for a few days. Why do you think we have more sex in the beginning of the month?”

“I didn’t…think about it. Didn’t notice. Did you want me to…”

“Don’t,” Sherlock insisted, his eyes opening to look at the ceiling. “Ask your questions if you so desire, but do _not_ offer to _help_ ,” he said the word with such distaste.

John brought his hand up to pet Sherlock, hoping to calm him down, and felt him slightly shudder against his side. The room was quiet except for the slight shift of the duvet every once in a while and the sound of Sherlock’s controlled breathing.

“If too much contact turns you off, what do you think about?” John finally broke down to ask. Despite climaxing himself five minutes ago, he was feeling quite warm in the face. His refractory period wasn’t what it used to be, so he had a feeling that the warmth in his abdomen and chest were more from a response of gaining Sherlock’s trust.

“Other people,” Sherlock responded.

John looked down in confusion. “Most people—“

“Most people picture _themselves_ with other people. I, however, do not.” His voice had taken an agitated tone but he settled as John continued carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“So who do you picture, then?”

“Someone with the right transport.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the next few chapters are a lot of angst, but that shouldn't be too surprising, TRF and all.

It was a good few months after the Baskerville case. It was quiet. Even the cases Sherlock took on seemed below his interest level, but placated his boredom. When he wasn’t experimenting in the kitchen or solving a case, he was experimenting with John and his own boundaries. For a couple days following that first incident, Sherlock was less affectionate and John worried. He was worried he wouldn’t get his affectionate Sherlock back, that he’d done something wrong and irreversible.

When Sherlock sidled back up to him days later on the sofa, he felt himself breathe a long-suffering sigh of relief. Sherlock practically knocked the book right off his lap and John realised things had returned to what he considered ‘normal.’

Months later, he was accepting less-interesting cases just for something to do. It was these cases that increased his media presence despite Sherlock insisting Lestrade and his team take all the credit, the same person who helped circulate that awful hat debacle.

“Why is it _always_ the hat?” Sherlock whined.

“ ‘Bachelor?’ What the hell are they implying?”

“Is it a cap? Why’s it got two fronts?”

“It’s a deerstalker. ‘…Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson. Confirmed bachelor John Watson…’ We need to be more careful.”

“Careful?”

“You’re not exactly a PI anymore. You’re this far from being famous.” John held up his hand for emphasis.

“It’ll pass.”

“It better. The press will turn Sherlock, they always turn. They’ll turn on you.”

“It really bothers you, what people say.”

“Yes.”

“About me. I don’t understand. Why would it upset _you_?”

“Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news.”

Sherlock scoffed. He _tried_. He had tried until Moriarty made his appearance known again. Sherlock knew all about showing off and Moriarty had done exactly that. There was no way his detainment wasn’t intentional, that much was glaringly obvious. In every other instance, he put his trust in the justice system but Moriarty couldn’t just be ordinary like everyone else. The court system could be fixed and if anyone could do it, it would be Jim Moriarty.

That didn’t stop Sherlock from doing his part to appear as a witness, as one of the only witnesses.

Upon his return, Sherlock and Mycroft quickly worked up several contingency plans, well aware Moriarty would be coming after Sherlock in one way or another. Flattering (and entertaining) as it could be, Sherlock found himself concerned for John’s safety. Moriarty had already used him once and Sherlock had barely managed to get them out of that situation alive. John made it clear he was willing to sacrifice himself and Sherlock would do anything to keep from John needing to do it again.

“Brother mine, I do appreciate the unexpected cooperation.”

“Mm, don’t get used to it. I don’t often admit to needing…assistance.” His attention was divided between Mycroft and their conversation and John sending him what he thought were hilarious pick-up lines. “Though, to be fair, if I had the power of the British government at my hands, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, I know.” Mycroft sat back in his chair. “Life just wouldn’t be as interesting without your existence.”

Sherlock paused mid-text and looked up blankly. “Sentiment, _brother mine_.”

 

“Remember…” John said for what had to be the hundredth time.

“Yes.”

“Remember,” he practically begged.

“Yes,” Sherlock repeated.

“Don’t try to be clever.”

“No.”

“And please, just keep it simple and brief.” If the case had any hope, John thought, Sherlock would have to behave for just ten minutes.

“God forbid the star witness in the trial should come across as intelligent,” Sherlock muttered.

“Intelligent, fine. Let’s give smartarse a wide berth.”

“I’ll just be myself,” Sherlock teased.

“Are you even listening to me?” John raised his voice in frustration. It was frustrating to Sherlock that John just didn’t _understand_. Why would Moriarty let himself be caught? No matter what Sherlock did, this would pan out exactly how Moriarty wanted it to. He could give a stellar—boring—testimony but that wouldn’t stop Moriarty from walking out that night if he so pleased.

“I’ll meet you in there,” Sherlock said as he placed a hand on John’s lower back to get to his other side. “Just gotta…” He gestured minutely towards the door. John’s step faltered to follow, his face donning that protective look Sherlock had noticed on several occasions. Sherlock gave him a look. “Meet you in there,” he repeated. He just needed a moment to breathe and clear what he could of his mind. As comforting as John’s presence was, comfort wasn’t what Sherlock needed.

He’d long gotten over the fear of using a public men’s room, no longer concerned with if he looked male enough, if someone would call him out. People had been using male pronouns upon meeting him for years now. The sudden appearance of Kitty Riley threw him for a loop, however.

“I’m a big fan,” she said, eyes scanning him up and down.

“Evidently.”

“I read all your cases. Follow all of them. Sign my shirt?”

“There are two types of fans,” Sherlock said, already noticing the shoddy work of appearing as one.

“Oh?”

“Catch me before I kill again, type A.” Moriarty being a fine example of this type of fanatic. These aren’t always the best cases, but there have been a few enlightening ones.

“Uh huh. What’s type B?”

“Your bedroom’s just a taxi drive away.” Irene Adler, another fine example. Sherlock usually preferred the former; the latter usually got creepy rather than interesting.

“Hm. Guess which one I am.”

“Neither. No, you’re not a fan at all.” It took all of thirty seconds to point out the prominent—obvious—traits of a journalist.

“Wow, I’m liking you.”

“You mean I’d make a great feature. Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat.” Sherlock almost rolled his eyes at that. 

“Kitty. Riley. Pleased to meet you.”

“No. I’m just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won’t give you an interview. No, I don’t want the money.” Honestly, would there be no rest from the media? On that final note, he headed for the door. She didn’t hesitate to follow.

“You and John Watson. Just platonic? Can I put you down for a no there as well?” Her hand pulled the door from Sherlock’s grasp while her body invaded his personal space and blocked his only exit. He didn’t back down, didn’t retreat. “There’s all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later, you’re going to need someone on your side. Someone to set the record straight.” He didn’t flinch as she slid her card into his breast pocket.

“You think you’re the girl for that job, do you?”

“I’m smart. And you can trust me.” Her hands lingered between them, not quite touching but uncomfortably close.

“Smart, okay, investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see.” Only then did he take a step back to allow her to get the full picture, offering himself up to her scrutiny. “If you’re that skilful, you don’t need an interview, you can just…read what you need.” He gave her a moment to at least _try_. It was only fair. “No? Okay, my turn.” He used that to his advantage, putting himself between her and the door. But, as John had said, Sherlock always had to get the last word in. “I don’t see smart. And I definitely don’t see trustworthy. But, I’ll give you a quote, if you’d like. Three little words. ‘You. Repel. Me.’ “

He made his way back to John in the courtroom. He left the restroom much more irritated and restless than he had gone in and John, of course, had to notice.

“All right?”

Sherlock nodded without a word. His leg bounced with the excess energy until John put a hand on his knee. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be back at the flat, lounging on the sofa.

Upon taking the stand, John couldn’t look away from Sherlock. He seemed tense, but not to the point of appearing uncomfortable. Moriarty, John noticed, wouldn’t look away from Sherlock. Sherlock, when he wasn’t annoying the judge, met that cold gaze with what John would describe as passionate and fiery. John could only see Sherlock’s facial expressions but he seemed to be having quite the conversation with Moriarty, despite addressing the courtroom.

Sherlock _did_ try to help the prosecution initially. “No, no, don’t… Don’t do that, that’s really not a good question.”

“Mr. Holmes!” the judge insisted once again.

“How long have I known him? Not your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun. He tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something.” Oh, but the game had been _fun_ , up until it wasn’t a game and John was the one strapped into a bomb. 

“Are you seriously claiming this man is an expert? After knowing the accused for just five minutes?”

“Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample.” Moriarty’s mind worked very similar to Sherlock’s, that much he knew, which meant he knew more about Moriarty than anyone else.

“Mr. Holmes, that’s a matter for the jury.”

“Oh, really?” The challenge had been set. Sherlock just couldn’t help but to show just how little time he need to ‘know’ someone. His first thought, and his primary excuse, was he needed to show the jury the extent of his knowledge. Looking back on it, he’d admit it wasn’t one of his finer moments.

“Mr. Holmes!” The judge interrupted. John found himself sighing in relief as the judge let it slide with a final warning. “Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive a few minutes without showing off?”

Oh, this was a fantastic turn of events, Moriarty thought. There would be no way the great Sherlock Holmes would back down from a challenge like that. Sherlock didn’t look at John as he practically read the judge’s history out loud for the entire courtroom to hear. He didn’t get too far before a couple of policemen pulled him off the stand. Only then did he look up at John with a smirk that instantly fell when he met John’s glare. ‘Oh. Bit not good, then.’

 

John left the courthouse for a few hours after the trial had adjourned for the day. He was tempted to leave Sherlock there overnight until he realised that was a bad idea. Leaving him to his own devices with no escape, nothing for him to distract himself with, that would be beyond cruel. So, John returned to bail Sherlock out.

“What did I say? I said, “Don’t get clever.”

“I can’t just turn it on and off like a tap. Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You were there for the whole thing, up in the gallery, start to finish.”

“Like you said, sat on his backside, never even stirred.”

“Moriarty’s not mounting any defence.” Truly not a surprise. One needed little defence if they could manipulate the system.

“So, what do we do?”

“What is there to be done?” Sherlock said in a serious tone.

John let the silence continue until they were back at Baker street. “Dinner?”

“Not hungry.” Sherlock had been on his mobile the entire car ride back and continued to do so as he sat on the sofa.

“Not tired either, I bet,” John mumbled to himself.

Sherlock lowered the phone, as if he’d thought of something. “Actually, I’m exhausted.” He tapped out the last few words then pocketed the device. “Bed?”

“It’s only six.”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked at John with confusing; why was he stating the obvious?

“So, most people don’t sleep until the sun goes down.”

“Again with the ‘most people,’ “ Sherlock groaned. “I’ll be in your bed, when you finish eating dinner.” Sherlock headed for the stairs.

“Ah, Sherlock.”

“I’m fine, John. Really, I ate this morning, remember?”

“Not that. Pyjamas?” Or the real concern, the binder. Sherlock huffed went to his room first anyway.

“Happy?” Sherlock said as he passed through the kitchen.

“Ecstatic.”


	14. Chapter 14

The following day, Sherlock saw the reality of his situation, of what this game had become. He had seen it coming, but to receive that phone call from John, his worried voice warning Sherlock of Moriarty’s impending visit, it really hit him. The game just got interesting.

If John could just find a cab, he could attempt to beat Moriarty to the flat, or at least be there to offer Sherlock support in…some way. 

The waiting was excruciating. Without Moriarty making the first advance, it would be difficult to respond, so Sherlock was stuck waiting, taking up smaller cases while knowing Moriarty was just waiting in return. At the same time, Sherlock hoped none of the plans he and Mycroft had made would come to fruition. That would mean _not_ leaving John. It was odd, this _hoping_ thing. He knew otherwise. The chances of something unexpected happening were quite low, not enough to even warrant an ounce of hope, and yet…

It took months. Sherlock began to speculate how Moriarty could be involved in almost every case that was brought to him. John would have called it paranoia, had there been no evidence of Moriarty’s hand. He was _teasing_ Sherlock, playing with him before he made the big move. Sherlock had thought this case was the same, another ploy to keep Sherlock’s attention, this time, involving kidnapped children.

Oh, Moriarty played this one brilliantly, using Sherlock’s own lack of social niceties and arrogance. If he hadn’t solved the case, the children would have died and he would have failed. The family had sought him out directly, so they’d blame the deaths of their children on him. But solving it, oh, solving it meant tipping the scale from disbelief to distrust. It took him entirely too long to see it coming. He solved one too many cases, allowed himself to be led directly into this trap by just being him and it took Moriarty to point it out.

“The answer is no, Inspector.”

“I haven’t even said anything.” It was clear to Sherlock Lestrade, while slightly doubtful, didn’t fully believe Donovan and Anderson. However, evidence was on their side this time.

“Just saving you the trouble of asking.”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade was sure there was an explanation, there had to be a perfectly reasonable answer to this, if Sherlock would just come in and tell _them_ , it would all blow over.

“The scream?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade admitted.

“Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Oh, Moriarty’s smart. He wants to destroy me, inch by inch. It’s a game, Lestrade, and not one I’m willing to play.”

It was then that John realised it would be a long night for Scotland Yard and them.

“He’ll be deciding whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me.”

“You think?”

“Standard procedure.” Although, it would appear Lestrade didn’t have much choice in this matter, and by extension, neither did Sherlock. They would be back, whether because Lestrade let doubt shadow his trust in Sherlock or because his hand would be forced by those above him, Sherlock was sure.

“You should have gone with him. People will think—“

“I don’t care what people think.”

“You’d care if they thought you were stupid or wrong.”

“No, that would just make _them_ stupid or wrong.”

“Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re a fraud!”

“You’re worried they’re right.” John Watson would be the last one to believe all of it had been an act, with the exception of Mycroft. They’d lived together, _been_ together for some time now. John wouldn’t—couldn’t believe Sherlock had faked everything from the beginning. If he had, he would begin to doubt their nights alone together, every moment Sherlock had sat quietly with his head in John’s lap, every _word_ Sherlock had said to him. He would begin to doubt if _any_ of it was real.

“No,” John replied adamantly. He couldn’t possibly…

“That’s why you’re so upset, you can’t even entertain the possibility that they may be right, you’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well.”

“No, I’m not,” John insisted. He couldn’t even meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be.

“Moriarty is playing with your mind, too. Can’t you see what’s going on?” Sherlock was overcome with frustration in this moment. If John could just _see_ , he wouldn’t have to explain himself, not to the last person he wanted to.

“No. I know you.” ‘I _trust_ you.’

“A hundred percent?” Sherlock found it hard to believe that John didn’t have _some_ doubt.

“Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.”

Sherlock wouldn’t breathe in relief just yet; the night was just starting. But to know John was on his side, wherever it may lead, was good. John remained at the window for a few more minutes before taking the chair across from Sherlock.

“Do you think Lestrade would…”

“Don’t know. His connection with Mycroft would suggest he wants to trust me; he knows what both of us are capable of. But the evidence at hand proves to be troublesome. I don’t blame him either way.”

“That’s…unusually nice of you.”

“I’m not _always_ an annoying dick, am I?”

“Only when you speak.”

 

“I’ve still got some friends on the force. Lestrade says they’re coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs, every single officer you’ve ever made feel like a tit. Which is a lot of people.”

Before Sherlock could argue that ‘playing nice’ would have only prolonged the inevitable, Mrs. Hudson reappeared with a third package with the telling red seal followed by a team from Scotland Yard.

“Sherlock Holmes, I’m arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping,” Lestrade informed dutifully. The man ‘slapping on the handcuffs’ certainly didn’t feel the need to be nice about it. Sherlock could feel the cuffs digging into his wrists as he was pulled about and down the stairs.

Sherlock had already thought of thirteen—fourteen ways to get out of custody, several threatened Lestrade’s job security, one included murder (not his best plan, admittedly), when another body was thrown against the car next to him.

“Joining me?” Well, that narrowed down the options even further.

“Yeah. Apparently it’s against the law to chin the Chief Superintendent.” Sherlock had to wonder what was said to have John react so explosively, but it was John, who was already on edge.

“Bit awkward, this.” Sherlock did see some humour in being handcuffed to his partner, John not so much.

“There’s no one to bail us.” Unlikely anyone else would bail Sherlock out of jail (for the second time that year alone).

“I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape.”

Before John knew it, his handcuffed hand was attached to Sherlock’s yielding a gun and pointing it at anyone who attempted to come near them. Always for the dramatics, he fired a couple rounds into the air to ‘encourage’ cooperation.

“Just so you know, the gun is his idea. I’m just, you know, his…” John tried. If they were both in lockup for the unforeseeable future, there truly would be no one to vouch for the madman that was now holding a gun to his head?

“My hostage!”

“Hostage, yes, that works.” John trusted Sherlock, he did, but how much can you trust a recently fired gun to be held twenty centimetres from your head? “What now?” John murmured to Sherlock alone as they continued backing away.

“Doing what Moriarty wants,” Sherlock said, as if it were obvious. “Run.”

Sherlock paid little attention to the metal digging into his skin and John’s warm hand in his gloved one. He was already thinking of places to go, underground perhaps? No, not yet. Work to be done first.

Instinctually, he hopped over the fence with little effort until he was pulled back by his arm twisting uncomfortably.

“We’re going to need to coordinate,” John murmured.

“Right. Go to your right.”

Sherlock noted John’s hand naturally went into his again after bypassing the fence. Logically, it was better than being dragged by handcuffs, but it felt oddly affectionate.

“Everybody wants to believe it. That’s what makes it so clever. A lie that’s preferable to the truth. All my brilliant deductions were just a sham, no one feels inadequate. Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man.”

“What about Mycroft? He could help us.”

“If he thinks I want a reconciliation, now’s not really the moment.”

“We’re being followed. I knew we couldn’t outrun the police.”

“Not the police. It’s one of our new neighbours from Baker Street. Let’s see if he can give us some answers. We’re going to jump in front of that bus.”

John couldn’t fight Sherlock’s strong grip as he was pulled in front of an oncoming bus. He had about two seconds to see his life flash before his eyes; it was…a lot of yelling. Next thing John knew, Sherlock had a gun pointed at the man who had pushed them out of the way of the bus and the man was now lying dead at their feet, shot but not by Sherlock.

“It’s a game changer, a key that could break into any system and it’s sitting in our flat right now. That’s why he left that message, ‘Get Sherlock.’ We need to get back in the flat and search.” That didn’t explain why they needed Sherlock alive to search the flat, but he figured that was one of Moriarty’s arbitrary rules; if anyone was to kill Sherlock Holmes in pursuit of that key, they wouldn’t have much time to enjoy the reward of such computer code.

“Why plant it on you?” John asked.

“Another subtle way of smearing my name, now I’m best pals with all those criminals.”

“Well, have you seen this? A kiss and tell. Some bloke named Rich Brook.” Ah, so it had begun. “Who is he?”

“No idea,” Sherlock lied.

 

It was the beginning of a very long night. Sherlock refused to explain the breaking and entering and John almost didn’t ask. They didn’t talk, didn’t touch, didn’t even _look_ at each other while waiting. Waiting for what, John didn’t know.

The appearance of Moriarty threw John for a loop (and Sherlock for that matter). Screaming ensued followed by ‘Richard Brook’s’ escape. John had been there, in the dark swimming pool, with a bomb strapped to his chest. He saw Moriarty and how he acted. There was no way a child’s television show actor could pull that off. The fear was real. Moriarty was _real_. He had to be, John insisted. He refused to let doubt wriggle its way into his mind.

“Only one thing he needs to do to complete his game,” Sherlock mused to himself. “Something I need to do,” he told John dismissively.

“Want help?”

“No, on my own.” That body that got him into all this trouble could be used to his advantage, if he could just get Molly to help.

“You’re wrong, you know. You do count.” He hated the sincerity he let his voice take on. He needed her to trust him, but he wasn’t sure how much of the sincerity was faked, if any. The lines were blurring now, definitely not good. “You’ve always counted and I always trusted you. But you were right, I’m not okay. Molly, I think I’m going to die. If I wasn’t who you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?”

“What do you need?” As if he had to ask. She _liked_ him for some reason, not the persona he displayed to the world, no she liked _him_. She trusted him. She always had.

 

“That’s if and only _if_ we need to. I would really like to avoid dying, fake or otherwise,” Sherlock spoke quickly once he realised Molly was keeping up.

“Right. So, Mycroft’s idea?”

“The other ones. Actually, I’ve yet to inform him of this one. Makes things easier.” He paused. “I mean, this, the body makes things easier. It really shouldn’t come to this, it’s just good to be prepared, contingencies and all that.”

Molly nodded as if she understood needing a contingency plan for such an occasion. Every day was an adventure with Sherlock Holmes, she thought.

 

All of these events played out in such a way, Sherlock found himself atop Bart’s hospital, making what could be his last conversation with John, his partner, his…lover and the dead body of Moriarty at his feet. John didn’t know. He’d arrived after the gun went off. Sherlock had little choice now and he had to make a good show of it because if he didn’t, the three lives he cared most about, over his own, would meet their ends. ‘Friends protect people,’ after all.

“Stop there.”

“Sherlock?”

“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop. I..I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”

“What’s going on?”

“An apology. It’s all true.” He had to make it look as though it was. If anyone was listening besides John, they would hear this. John’s belief and trust in him was unshakeable and he hated himself just a little bit more for planting that seed of doubt in John, but it needed to be done. It all did. It was either this, or John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would die. Their deaths wouldn’t be fake. They wouldn’t come back and Sherlock would be alone once again. He didn’t think he could survive it again.

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

“Why are you saying this?” John’s denial only hurt.

“I’m a fake.”

“Sherlock,” John said firmly.

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson. Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty, for my own purposes.” After all this time with John Watson, a man of whom he’d met at his worst, after helping him back on his feet, building his confidence up, his assurance, Sherlock was about to destroy it all in a span of two minutes. Being aware of that, it wasn’t much of an act, the tears welling in his eyes. John Watson, who’d been on the brink of death way too many times, some by his own hand, would have a very hard time getting over his flatmate—his partner’s suicide. What Sherlock wanted most at that very moment wasn’t the game, not like this. What he wanted was one more night in with John. One more crap telly show that he could ruin for John because he knew John secretly loved it. One more night of takeaway that would be finished for breakfast in the morning. Instead, all he got was this crap conversation over a bloody mobile phone.

“Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met… The _first time we met_ ,” John insisted, “You knew all about my sister. Right?”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

Sherlock paused, prepared for this. “I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. It’s a trick, just a magic trick.” It wouldn’t have been difficult, given his brother’s standing in the government.

“No. Stop it now.”

“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move,” Sherlock insisted. “Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please. Will you do this for me?” 

“Do what?” John asked in disbelief. He thought he’d—they’d have more time. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be real.

“This phone call. It’s…it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

“When?”

“Goodbye John.” He did everything he could to convey the apology, the feeling, the _heart_ he found he couldn’t say to John.

“No. Don’t.” John choked on his words. He watched the consulting detective toss the phone back onto the rooftop. The next few minutes were a blur or maybe he didn’t want to remember. Only his dreams—nightmares wouldn’t let him forget the sight of Sherlock’s dark coat fluttering behind him as he fell towards the pavement. The worst ones even included the sickening sound, despite John not being close enough to hear.

He couldn’t tell you anything about the crowd around the unmoving man. His vivid dreams would only focus on the man in the dark coat, his lover, his _friend_ , the man who’d saved him. His last touch on the still-warm delicate wrist, his dark curls he’d loved to run his fingers through, soaked in blood, the wet pavement, water mixing with dark red and washing away any trace of Sherlock while the body was carted away—taken, effectively, from him.

He couldn’t meet his blue-green pale eyes for long. It wasn’t right to see them so unmoving, so uncomprehending, the troubled mind of his detective finally stopped.

It took him hours to move away from the kerb. He didn’t feel wet or cold until he finally brought himself to return to Baker Street. It was surreal. He expected to be met with the rush of a whirlwind detective around the flat, as usual. The silence was eerie.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her, flitted about obliviously, offering tea and criticism of the flat. John didn’t even have the energy to snap at her, just fell into his chair, cold, wet, and with his jacket still on. He dropped his head into his hands at the thought of telling her. But he would have to because by tomorrow, it was bound to be everywhere, if not later that night.

Dutifully, he got up and took her by the wrists, gently, and led her to a kitchen chair.

“John? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

John opened his mouth before he realised he didn’t know what to say or how. He choked on the mere name of the consulting detective. He swallowed, forced back the tears—now is not the time—and held both of her hands between his own. Her eyes began welling up with tears and she began shaking her head.

“No,” she said before her voice started shaking. “No, absolutely not. You can’t possibly believe he’s lost,” she said quietly.

“I saw,” he responded and swallowed again.

“He never loses.”

‘He’d outlive God to have the last word,’ John remembered saying to Irene. With that, John found himself dropping to his knees again and crumpling to the floor in front of Mrs. Hudson.

“And after he’s left the flat in such disarray. You know, there’s a hand in the freezer, no thumb.” Both of them were caught somewhere between laughing and crying.

Once she left, John felt the cold loneliness begin to grip him. He was still freezing and soaked so he went for a shower then sat down to eat the first edible thing he found in the fridge. It was too normal. How could life carry on like this, like nothing happened, without Sherlock?

John welcomed the warmth of drink after drink of whiskey, until he passed out in his chair for the night. He couldn’t stand the idea of laying on the sofa, not without the chance of a heavy consulting detective waking him by laying on him. Couldn’t even stand staring at the empty, taunting chair across from him. Didn’t want to go into bed, expecting a warm body to join him sometime during the night only to be disappointed come morning.

He had to call off work for a couple days, at least. Sarah, having heard the news, understood, and allowed him the time he needed. Even dropped by to offer to help in some way.

Planning the funeral went down to him. Mrs. Hudson helped in many ways. Molly refused to come around. Lestrade checked in daily on John but was rubbish in regards to the funeral.

Morning of, he found himself at his therapist’s office with her pestering him about ‘the stuff you wanted to say.’

“No. I’m sorry. I can’t.” He couldn’t even imagine where to begin. ‘I love you,’ would be a good place as any but why bother now? It wasn’t as if Sherlock was here, as if he could say it back, as if he _would_ say it back. It was too late now; there was no changing that.

He walked back to Baker Street then found himself outside Bart’s hospital. He had no reason to be here again, for the third time this week. Yet, here he was. The blood had been long washed away and any evidence gathered.

On the roof, John walked where he thought Sherlock would have, where the final showdown with Moriarty finally took place. He’d lost this battle, the most important one, John thought as he stepped up on the ledge. He didn’t look down, not yet. He closed his eyes and remembered their last conversation, how Sherlock reached out to him, how broken Sherlock sounded. It hurt to torture himself this way, but at the same time, John felt a sort of comfort. He had a desire to join Sherlock in his end, to take that final step off the ledge and follow him even in death, but John couldn’t do it, couldn’t make his feet move forward. It would end this awful pain, if he could just…

“John, get down from there,” Greg sounded tired, no doubt from dealing with everything. As much as he found Sherlock annoying, he cared for the man and looked out for him, initially for Mycroft then it became a habit. John felt the back of his coat being grabbed until he stumbled back off the ledge.

“He stood there,” John mumbled as Greg threw an arm over John’s shoulders and led him back down through the hospital.

“Look, I know it upset you, seein’ that and all, but you can’t keep scaring us like that,” Greg’s voice had a pleading quality to it, snapping John to attention. “I’ll get you back to Baker Street, but then I’ve gotta take care of some things. I’ll meet you there in a couple hours, yeah?”

“Yeah.”


	15. Chapter 15

‘Alone is what I am. Alone protects me.’ Sherlock kept repeating to himself. Everything happened quickly after that last conversation with John. He had to go underground to avoid being noticed. Having his face plastered across newspapers for the next few days would make things difficult if Sherlock wasn’t adept at living in disguise. It wouldn’t be too difficult for a few days, at least. He just wanted to stick around long enough to make sure John was going to be okay. Not good, not in the least, but okay. He was doing this for John; John needed to survive.

Mycroft allowed him that much. He wanted to tell John but if anyone was watching, if anyone _knew_ , then it would all be for nothing.  
Listening to Mrs. Hudson go on about his terrible living habits made him smile for the first time in days. The last person to leave, of course, was John, giving him some time alone with what he believed was Sherlock’s body.

“Um…” John cleared his throat. Oh, so John was going to _talk_ to him. Sherlock was intrigued; would he yell at him for leaving him too soon? For being an arse? Sherlock smiled as he waited to hear the lashing John would end up giving him.

“You, you told me once, that you weren’t a hero. There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but you were the best man, the most human…human being that I’ve ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told a lie. So. There.”

Sherlock wasn’t prepared for that. _Sentiment?_ From John Watson? Oh, things were _really_ bad then.

“I was… I was so alone. And I owe you so much.” His voice shook as he tapped the grave marker.

“I disagree,” Sherlock voiced quietly to himself as he watched John step away.

“Oh, please.” John turned back. “There’s just one more thing, right? One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, one more, for me. Don’t be…dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this?”

“John, I’m sorry I have to do it this way. But it’s the only way.” In that moment, Sherlock made up his own mind. “I will come back. One day, I promise I will.” Hm, sentiment seemed to be clouding his thoughts of John, more so than usual.

Later that evening, Sherlock rested his head on a desk in front of him. Out the window, he could see John sitting up on that ledge again, his feet dangling over the edge. Lestrade joined him soon after on the ledge. Unlike this morning, he didn’t drag John away, instead passed him a bottle as he sat down next to John. They looked to be talking. Lestrade brought his arm up around John’s shoulders and he leaned into the comfort.

Sherlock left the building pushing the hurt it caused to leave John but he couldn’t stay in London forever. This is what Sherlock needed to see though, that John would be okay.

 

The next few months went flying by. Sherlock, honestly, had barely any time to miss John and he liked it that way. He didn’t want to think about how much he missed the soft hair pats, the nightly cuddles, the good times. He didn’t have John to remind him to eat, but he managed anyway. Only collapsed once in four months and thanks to a lovely nurse on a bus, he was fine a couple days later.

He made his way around Europe first, slowly working his way through Moriarty’s web of criminals. The worst gone, he moved onto the Americas. Once in a while, he would get intel from Mycroft who on a rare occasion found him. Then again, with his need for testosterone, replacement binders and the like, it made it easier for Mycroft to track.

By tracking his own testosterone cycles—once a month—he figured he had been away from Baker Street for a year. A full year had passed, a Christmas, John’s birthday, his _own_ birthday, a new year, all passed without John. That realisation hit Sherlock pretty hard. He was halfway through Canada and spending the night on a mattress in one of Mycroft’s friend’s basement.

Just a call wouldn’t be so bad, right? A text? ‘Happy Birthday.’ No telling SH. He wouldn’t recognize the number, Sherlock rationalised.

“Ah, no.” The friend—Steve? Stephen?—came barrelling down the stairs and took Sherlock’s phone from him. “Sorry, but Myc told me not to let you have your phone if you had anything.”

Sherlock looked up in confusion. “I’m not high.”

“No, you’re tipsy. You get sentimental, apparently.” The friend slipped the phone into a pocket and headed back upstairs with a quick “ ‘Night.”

For the first night, in a long while, Sherlock laid down willingly in hopes of sleeping rather than passing out from exhaustion. Lying still with his mind still working was the worst thing he could do. Lying there led to thinking. Thinking led to thinking about London and Baker Street and _home_ , everything he didn’t want to think about.

Maybe if he’d known it would be the last time they would be together, Sherlock would have let John do more. A year without John’s touch was beginning to affect him. A year without John absolutely _teasing_ him and that spot on his neck with his warm…soft…lips.

Sherlock felt himself flushing before he realised just how much he missed John’s touch in a much less innocent way than he’d originally thought. Oh, that was new. Imagining another person, an actual person touching him, kissing him, _stroking_ him. Glancing up towards the closed door of the basement, Sherlock let a hand slip down into his trousers. A _year_ since he’d done this, too. Much too long.

It took him all of five minutes when it usually took him closer to an hour. His body relaxed into the makeshift bed as his breathing settled and his consciousness drifted. He revelled in his memory of being in John’s arms, a soft kiss pressed to the top of his head, and his familiar smell mingled with the smell of 221b Baker Street: home.


	16. Chapter 16

After some time away from Baker Street, John still didn’t feel confident enough to reside in the flat himself, nor could he really afford to. He and Mycroft only talked through Lestrade these days, even after John stopped blaming Mycroft for Sherlock’s death. Although, as more time went on, the less Greg and John kept in contact.

The first couple weeks John spent away from Baker Street. It took him a full month before he could sleep at all in the quiet flat. It took him another month and Mrs. Hudson’s help to pack most of Sherlock’s things away. Experiments were thrown out, clothes put away. His room had been the hardest.

Time only provided numbing, but John didn’t expect anything more. Once Sherlock’s room was cleared out, John had shut the door. It was odd having the door closed at all times, but it was better than seeing it open and having hope. It was a sad attempt at ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ as if Sherlock could ever be out of mind completely.

Days blurred together. John felt himself slipping into a routine, That may have helped other people, but when it came to John, it was Sherlock’s spontaneity that had made life less dull and made John feel like he had a purpose again after he’d returned to London invalid. Days began dragging on and he spent more time in bed trying to sleep than he had in the last decade. He knew he needed to go back to his therapist, but he just couldn’t. Whether it was the motivation or the effort to dial the number, he just couldn’t.

John lost track of time. Somewhere in the blur of days, he met Mary. Suddenly the blurring of days became brighter. It took time; it always took time, but he had something to look forward to other than going home and sleeping. He should remember where he met her, but he didn’t. Somewhere between work and the flat? At work? A function he went to with a friend? All that mattered was she made him laugh and smile and just _breathe_ that much easier. She took his mind off his suffocating thoughts and onto something entirely.

That’s not to say he didn’t talk to her about the bad days. In the beginning of their friendship, that’s all John had: bad days. But slowly came the good days until the good days started outnumbering the bad days, just barely. And then, the bad days became bad hours, and bad moments.

She wasn’t the first person he had tried dating. He avoided men because he would compare them to Sherlock. The few dates he did try ended in disaster until Mary’s friendship opened him up just a little. So, after the time they spent together and how she had helped him, he wasn’t surprised to realise he had feelings for her. She and him gave it a try. As she said, if she didn’t care about him, she would have left his miserable arse a long time ago.

His dreams no longer focused on the dark colours of that one day. He dreamed more about mundane things, sometimes involving Sherlock, sometimes not. They didn’t end in the billowing coat and a pool of blood at the end, so John marked it as improvement.

He celebrated his second birthday without Sherlock but Mary distracted him for much of the day. After dinner, though, he was alone in the flat, sat in his own chair and back staring at the empty one before him, the one he refused to get rid of.

For once, it didn’t sadden him completely. He thought about the last time Sherlock had ‘forgotten’ his birthday, going off about how insignificant another year was. It was an arbitrary date, after all. John’s memory of his voice and a few other little things had faded, much to John’s dismay. John was feeling sentimental; he was tempted to go through the few boxes he’d kept in the flat. Ultimately, he decided that dwelling on the past wouldn’t help him.

Just as he was about to call Mary, Lestrade appeared at the door. “Mrs. Hudson sent me up. Hoped you’d be home,” he explained.

“Yeah, come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Happy birthday. Figured I’d stop by. It’s been a while.”

John nodded. “Anything interesting happening?”

“No more than usual. Anderson’s lost it,” Greg said as he lowered himself down on the sofa. “Still coming up with theories.”

John nodded. He’d hoped, too, initially, but it’d been too long without a single word. If Sherlock had survived somehow, surely he would have sent John _something_ to know he was okay. He wouldn’t torture John with this silence.

“Can’t lose something you’ve never had.”

Greg smiled a bit. “I feel bad.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“He blames himself. Donovan, too.”

“They’re not exactly innocent, but they’re not entirely to blame.”

“Just like you’re not to blame,” Greg reminded him. John merely nodded.

“At least his name was cleared,” John said soberly. He hated the way everyone had acted at first. Suddenly everyone _loved_ and admired Sherlock. In death, suddenly people were more caring and more forgiving of his harsh nature. Where they used to criticise, they praised. Maybe Sherlock’s cynicism towards humanity had rubbed off a bit on John.

 

Twenty rounds of injections, twenty months away from London. Sherlock got himself in quite the situation in the last leg of his journey. Physical pain was uncomfortable, but manageable. Hell, it kept him from thinking. It was the solitary confinement that he barely got through. He’d lost track of time, lost track of his sanity, until he somehow managed to talk his way out.

Bleeding, he found his way to another one of Mycroft’s associates, or rather he’d found him. Before he knew it, Sherlock was being swept away by none other than Mycroft himself. A nurse worked to stem the bleeding.

In and out of consciousness, he heard Mycroft talking about some terrorist organisation make its home in London, calling Sherlock back home. Pain and delirium from malnourishment had him murmuring a constant, weak litany of ‘John.’

 

He woke up sometime later in a room in Mycroft’s flat. It’d been…seven years, Sherlock guessed, since he’d been in this situation. The last time he was laid up in Mycroft’s unused guest room Sherlock had been dealing with a rather nasty detoxing with awful withdrawal symptoms. He was actually _happier_ with Mycroft’s presence and company. It was dreadful.

“Nice of you to make an appearance,” Mycroft laid down the file in his lap and gave Sherlock his full attention. Dry mouth kept him from answering immediately. As he gradually became more aware—too slow for his liking—he felt the soft cotton pyjamas, the silky sheets on his arms, and his top against his bare chest—

“Don’t worry, brother mine, no one knows. But you, you need rest.”

“Can’t. Terrorist organisation.”

“That can wait a day or two.”

“It’s not like you to care.”

“It’s not like you to do this much damage, Sherlock. You’ve always pushed the boundaries, but this time, you’ve completely disregarded them.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed himself up into a sitting position. His chest and back hurt most and he found himself resting against the headboard.

“The, ah, contusions on your back were infected. Probably from your lack of care, binding, not eating, and dehydration.”

“Would have taken care of it eventually.”

“Eventually? You mean after you collapsed, again?”

“You’re so dramatic.” Even Sherlock had to admit his voice lacked its usual edge.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“I take it, I’ll be staying here? In this wonderful…” Sherlock looked around the empty, bluish-whitish walls of the guest room, “wonderful room. Just so you can have the pleasure of watching over me, yet again?”

“Do you really think you can just walk back into Baker Street and have John and Mrs. Hudson just accept it without question?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“It’s been two years, Sherlock. They’ve mourned your death, grieved over your loss. Show up suddenly, you might just give the old boy a heart attack.”

“Perhaps. Part of the thrill.”

“Stay here for just a couple days, Sherlock. For once, make things easy.”

“For who? You?”

“For yourself.” Mycroft gathered up the file in his lap and pushed himself up. “I’ll bring you lunch after you’ve been looked at,” he said.

 

“Infection looks good, Mr. Holmes,” she said with a gentle smile. Sherlock hated it. He had the covers pulled up around his shoulders in front and his knees held to his chest. He’d noticed his face had been shaved and his hair cut, probably while he was unconscious.

“You did lose a lot of blood. That and the dehydration, it wouldn’t be a surprise if you’re feeling weak.”

“Well, I’d hate to be special,” Sherlock mumbled into his knees. Her fingers were light on his back, but who liked being prodded at? He could feel her pity as she looked at the healed over scars of varying severity.

“Mr. Holmes,” the nurse sat on the edge of the bed and spoke gently. He glanced over but returned his gaze forward. “I’d be more concerned about psychological—”

“Leave.”

“Mr. Holmes—”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft asked you to get me to talk. Go back and report to him I’m psychologically sound.”

She looked at him for a moment longer then left with a sigh. Mycroft appeared not too long after Sherlock had pulled his shirt back on. He wouldn’t be binding any time soon if Mycroft had his way.

“It’s unnerving, you know, having you constantly watch me,” Sherlock grumbled as he ate.

“Then do us both a favour, and stop putting us in this kind of situation.”

“I’d happily be back at Baker Street.”

“Not yet. You can barely stand on your own. Soon, I promise.”

Sherlock put his spoon down. “I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted.”

“You think so?” Mycroft crossed his right leg over his left.

“Pop ‘round, who knows, jump out of a cake.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed. “Perhaps you should know—”

“If I’m going to give him a heart attack, may as well go all out.”

“He doesn’t live alone.”

Sherlock paused. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t consider the possibility that he might have moved on with his life?”

He choked down any emotion the idea may have caused. “What life? I’ve been away. He’s still at Baker Street, yes?”

Mycroft nodded once.

“Of course, he got himself a flatmate. He’d more comfortable, he could afford… She stays in his room, doesn’t she?”

“Mycroft Holmes. Your _previous_ room seems to remain sealed off.”

Sherlock slowly broke his gaze and returned to his soup.

 

Honestly, Mycroft was surprised it took as long as it did. He expected Sherlock to be bouncing around the flat, like a caged animal pacing. It wasn’t until the following afternoon that Sherlock announced he was going to leave and demanded Mycroft to help him do so.

“Where will he be tonight?”

“Why do you assume I’ll know—” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pulled his shirt closed and began doing up buttons. “You know everything.”

“He’s in surgery until eight. Spends his nights either at the local pub or the flat. You know, it is entirely possible you won’t be welcome.”

“No, it isn’t.” Sherlock pulled his jacket on slowly. The binder was making his back and chest ache, but he refused to leave the flat without it.

“Are you just going to show up?”

“No, I thought I’d fly in,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “Tell me again, how does one exactly tell someone they’re not dead? Oh, right. You’ve never had to.” Sherlock looked at him pointedly. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“You know what.”

“Closet. Allow me,” Mycroft stepped to the right to grab the heavy garment from the back of the door and helped him into it.

 

The day started out like any other. Mary had spent the night; they watched late night movies and while they weren’t romantically entangled anymore, it was nice having a friend. The flat seemed less empty, less lonely with a friend. He left while Mary continued sleeping on the sofa.

The days didn’t so much blur together anymore, but he was still stuck in a routine. Nothing would change that, though; he couldn’t quit, nor did he want to. This was a steady job and he needed the income.

 _’Bored. Bored. Bored!’_ The deep voice nagged at him. Ah, it’d been a while since he heard that voice.

“Uh huh, always so bored,” John answered the empty room aloud.

_’Never with you. Well… Usually not with you.’_

John smiled down into the form he was filling out. “Nice of you to make an appearance.”

 _’Missed you, too,’_ the voice mumbled.

 

That conversation with a disembodied voice led him back to that ledge for the first time in about a year. It had gotten better each time he came up here. He felt less of an urge to jump, more comforted by the idea of imaging Sherlock sitting beside him. If he really tried, he could imagine a warm hand encompassing the top of his with long fingers curled and pressed into his palm.

_’Sentimental.’_

“You’re the one holding my hand.”

_’And they call me dramatic.’_

John looked over in confusion to the empty spot beside him. That didn’t make sense.

“Honestly, John, here? Ironic, this being the last place we saw each other. Or rather, the last place you saw _me_.” Instead of the voice coming from him, it was sharp and behind him. “Woah, woah, John, don’t…fall.” Sherlock grabbed John’s sleeve to keep John from turning completely towards him. He ended up putting both arms around John to keep him from falling back.

John didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. He just looked up at the face that was so close to his own now, holding him up.

“John, you need to move. That’s it, just a little bit away from the long drop down.” Sherlock pulled him so John was sitting with his back against the ledge instead of hanging over it. “Hm, I’m rethinking the whole ‘Let’s tell John while he’s sitting seven floors up.’ A bit not good, you’d say. As someone who’s made that trip, I would not recommend it.”

John continued staring at Sherlock’s face. Slowly, his hand lifted to reach for the face in front of him.

“I’m dreaming. I have to be. I fell asleep, either here or in the cab. But you, you are _not_ real. You can’t be. You…jumped. Fell. Landed.” John was caught somewhere between convincing himself this was another delusion and telling himself that it’d been over a year since he’d had this vivid of a delusion.

“Hm. I came back. Short story. Not dead. I assure you, very real.” Sherlock took John’s hand and brought it down to his chest. Warm hands laid over John’s as pale green-blue eyes locked onto his gaze. “Bit mean, springing it on you like that. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence, it was very funny. Well, maybe not a _great_ defence.”

John’s lack of response was making Sherlock nervous. Apparently Sherlock rambled even more when nervous.

“I’m suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of apology. And I, uh…”

“Two years. Sherlock. Two fucking years. I thought. I thought you died. You let me grieve.”

Sherlock flinched under John’s anger and pain. He nodded with what he hoped was a sympathetic look.

“How could you do that? How?”

Sherlock tilted his head, giving up on the sympathetic, pitying look, instead taking on one of interest. “One question, just let me ask one question.” He paused until he got John to look up at him again. “Are you really going to keep that?” That God-awful moustache on his upper lip. Why he even thought that was a good idea, Sherlock would never understand. Yes, he’d tried his fair share of facial hair, once he was actually able to grow it, but it didn’t fit him and it certainly didn’t fit John’s face. He looked older. ‘It ages him,’ Sherlock thought.

John didn’t respond immediately. He just gave Sherlock a dumbfounded expression at the question. He ultimately ignored the question and the strong urge to punch that grin off Sherlock’s smug face, a face he had to remind himself that he’d missed. He ripped his hand away from Sherlock and took a deep breath.

“Why?” John asked simply.

“Well, you look at least ten years older.”

“No. Why? Why did you…”

“Oh,” Sherlock lost the smile. “Right. There were thirteen possibilities once I’d invited Moriarty onto the roof. I wanted to avoid dying, if at all possible. First scenario involved hurling myself into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags, over that edge,” Sherlock pointed to the right. “Impossible, the angle was too steep. Secondly—“

“You know, for a genius, you can be remarkably thick.”

“What?”

“I don’t care how you faked it, Sherlock. I want to know why.”

“Why? Because Moriarty needed to be stopped.”

“No,” John sounded calm. Sherlock hated that calm anger; it was the worst. He’d rather John just punch him and get over it.

“Oh. Why, as in…”

“Why did you leave me?” John asked, barely above a whisper.

“I see. Yes. Why? That’s a little more difficult to explain.”

“I’ve got all night.”

Sherlock swallowed and dropped his gaze to his shoes. “Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft’s idea.”

“Oh, so it was your brother’s plan? He knew? Of course, he knew. That’s why he didn’t show up at your…”

“Well, he probably wouldn’t have shown up anyway. Busy.”

“But he was the only one who knew?”

With a sigh, Sherlock admitted, “A couple of others. It was a very elaborate plan, it had to be.” Faking one’s death wasn’t easy after all. “The next of the thirteen possibilities was—“

“Who else? Who else knew? Who?!” John demanded when Sherlock was reluctant to answer.

“Molly.”

“Molly?”

“Molly Hooper and some of my homeless network and that’s all.”

“Right. And that makes it okay. Just your brother, Molly, and a hundred tramps.”

Sherlock laughed a little. “No, twenty-five at most.”

“Twenty… You could tell twenty-five strangers, your own brother, Molly Hooper, the person you’ve used and humiliated on more than one occasion but you couldn’t tell _me_?” At least John didn’t sound so calm anymore. “One word, Sherlock. One word is all I would have needed. One word to let me know you were alive.” John grasped onto Sherlock’s collar with both hands with a tight grip. The fabric tightened around his back but he kept his face neutral. He didn’t need John knowing how much pain he was in.

“I’ve nearly been in contact so many times, but I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet.”

“What?”

“You know, let the cat out of the bag. You’d tell Lestrade, who would tell Anderson because he felt bad for him. He blames himself, you know. Donovan, everyone would know then.”

“Oh, so this is my fault? You fake your own death then waltz in here, large as bloody life, but I’m not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it’s a perfectly okay thing to do!”

“Could you not scream it from the rooftops? I don’t want everyone knowing I’m still alive.”

“Oh, so it’s still a secret, is it?”

“Yes, it’s still a secret. There’s an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help.”

John blinked. “My help?” Oh, there was that calm anger again.

“You have missed this, admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world.” Sherlock tried prying John’s hands from his shirt. John only tightened his grip. “If you’re upset enough to hit me, just do it,” Sherlock didn’t beg, exactly.

“Everything’s not as simple as that, now is it?”

Sherlock flinched as he pulled John’s hands off him. The fabric loosened and he leaned forward slowly, giving John the opportunity to push him away. It wasn’t until both of Sherlock’s arms were around him that he leaned forward into Sherlock’s rough collar. He smelled similar but different, John realised. John pulled the collar down so he could press his face against Sherlock’s skin.

“I did…miss you,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled against the tip of John’s nose against his neck. “But you were right. Friends protect people.” He tightened his hold around John as arms wrapped around his torso.

“I spent so much time looking for clues, Sherlock. One word, one text, one _note_ , something.”

“I know.”

“You know. I’m still waiting on an apology.”

“I’m sorry.” He patted John’s head and laid his cheek against the top of his head.

“Anticlimactic.”

“Not enough?”

“Not nearly.” John’s breath was hot on his neck as he breathed deeply. They stayed in that position quietly until Sherlock’s leg started cramping and it became difficult to breathe. It took a bit to get John to let go completely, but Sherlock pulled him to his feet and kept a hold of his hand.

“You may possibly give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack,” John almost _giggled_ as they made their way to the street to catch a cab.

“Mycroft said the same about you.” Sherlock tried to let go of John’s hand to get a cab. He held out his left hand instead when John wouldn’t let go. “Here, go home. I’ve got some things I have to do.”

John looked unsure, as though if he were to let go of him now, he’d never come back. Sherlock saw that fear, hated that fear. Sherlock squeezed his hand as if promising to return before letting go.

John returned to the flat without saying a word to Mrs. Hudson or Mary while Sherlock made his rounds, coming back from the dead. First was Molly, who actually knew he was alive, but now she knew he was back in London. She responded like he thought she would, another hug followed by a kiss to the cheek.

Next was Lestrade. His reaction wasn’t exactly what Sherlock thought it would be. He thought he was going to get hit; he certainly didn’t expect a bruising hug, nor did he appreciate the rough handling at that moment.

 

“The Empty Hearse?” Sherlock asked in the doorway of Anderson’s flat. His door had been unlocked, saving Sherlock from picking a lock to irritate Anderson. “Really? Did you think that was _clever?_ ”

“Sherlock, not now.”

Sherlock waited almost patiently for him to realise. It took him a good five seconds, less than Sherlock thought it would but annoyingly long anyhow.

He turned in his chair with comically wide eyes. “I knew it. I _knew_ it!”

“No, you _hoped_ ,” Sherlock snapped. “You were selfishly afraid your stupidity caused my death, the death of a person you didn’t even like. But the idea that you had blood on your hands, foolishly—I killed myself, remember—was too painful for you to cope with. You didn’t _know_.”

“Still. You gotta tell me how you did it.”

“Finally, someone who isn’t concerned with why I didn’t tell them.”

“You wouldn’t have told me either way.”

“No, I suppose I wouldn’t,” Sherlock admitted as he looked past Anderson to see the wall of theories. “Is that…a TARDIS? Oh, I can’t believe I’m here telling _you_ this.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past him.


	17. Chapter 17

The last person Sherlock visited was Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock thought John would have told her, but it appeared not. It wasn’t a surprise when she locked her arms around his middle tightly and squealed with joy then chastised him for not calling.

“So, this is him?” Mary asked as she observed Sherlock.

“Hm,” John barely acknowledged her.

“He’s shorter than I’d heard,” Mary teased. Sherlock looked to John.

“John _does_ tend to exaggerate.” He shrugged his coat off slowly and hung it up in the same place he had last time he was here, almost two years ago. He made his way to the closed door at the end of the short hallway through the kitchen. He paused only a moment before opening the door to the bare room. It hadn’t exactly been decorated two years ago, but now the only thing present in the room was the bed and empty bedside table.

“I, uh, kept some of your stuff—“ John appeared at his shoulder in the doorway.

“Why?” Sherlock interjected. “Sentiment?”

“Would that surprise you?”

“No. Clothes, equipment, they all can be bought. I didn’t have pictures or anything holding a personal value. You put some sort of personal value on items that meant nothing.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same. You wouldn’t tuck just one jumper of mine away somewhere.”

“It wouldn’t bring you back.”

“Logically, I shouldn’t have kept anything. Lucky for you, there’s a box of your clothes in storage,” John tried to lighten his tone. “I also happen to know you do keep some things out of sentiment. Found my favourite jumper in the back of your closet and I sure as hell didn’t put it there.”

“How long did it take you to find it?” Sherlock tried joking but the question only served to remind John how long it took to be able to clear away what little possessions he had in the room.

“Hm,” John acknowledged without answering. “Rest up a bit. You look tired. I’ll…get the stuff I did keep and some food, yeah?” John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and left him to it. It wasn’t often he closed his bedroom door but he felt the need to this time. Even from behind it, he could hear John and Mary talking. He felt…out of place, odd, as if he were the interloper at 221b. He didn’t like it. Yet, as soon as he laid down on the bare bed, he fell into a light sleep.

 

Mary was gone when John woke him up later that night.

“Wow, you were hungry,” John commented.

“Mm,” Sherlock mumbled between bites. “Something about being malnourished does that to a person.”

John’s face reddened.

“No, it’s fine,” he assured John.

“It’s nice to see you eating.”

“You’re still thinking this is a dream or another nightmare.”

“Actually, no. Too vivid and I haven’t had a nightmare involving you in at least a month.” John had barely taken a bite of food, Sherlock noticed.

“You’ve lost weight. Seven, closer to eight pounds but it was worse before.”

“You usually only mention weight if they’ve gained it,” John said with a bit of a smile. “Especially Mycroft.”

“He didn’t take to kindly to me pointing it out,” Sherlock matched his smile.

“I thought he was such an arse…” John said in realisation.

“He is.”

“No, when he didn’t show at your—Jesus, your funeral.”

“Tedious. Molly showed and cried despite knowing it fake.”

“It wasn’t fake.”

“Well…”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t know.”

Sherlock looked back down at the food in front of him without a response. Another apology wouldn’t make it better; nothing would.

“Did you finish what it was you set out to do?” John asked.

“Yes. Are you asking if I will leave again?”

John nodded tersely, just once without looking at Sherlock.

“I won’t. So, uh, Mary, huh?”

“We’re not…together,” John’s face reddened again. “She just…spends a lot of time—“

“It’d be fine if you were,” Sherlock murmured in a tone that suggested otherwise.

John sighed. “I can’t just…act like the last couple years didn’t happen, like you didn’t…” ‘intentionally hurt me,’ John kept himself from saying.

“I don’t expect you to.”

“Then what do you expect?”

“Time.”

“You’re impatient.”

Sherlock shrugged. “What do you expect from _me_? I don’t have a time machine to go back to change things. I would have done it the same way, anyway, for _your_ protection.”

“I didn’t need protecting!”

“Yes, you did. I wasn’t here, there wouldn’t have been anyone to stop Moriarty’s followers from coming after you.”

They both looked at each other without another word. John walked out of the kitchen, leaving his plate essentially untouched. Sherlock returned his attention to his food, finished, then cleaned off the table. Without Mary’s presence in the flat, Sherlock felt comfortable enough to toss the binder and don a soft, cotton shirt. The latest lacerations on his back were itchy but healing. He curled up on the sofa, his face pressed into the familiar, smooth leather.

 

Sherlock woke to cold hands on his back, on his _bare_ back.

“Jesus, John! Aren’t doctors supposed to have _warm_ hands?”

“Was more concerned with these cuts. Some of these are really deep. Well, were.”

Sherlock shrugged out of John’s reach and pulled his shirt down. “I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

He sat up with his back against the back of the sofa, out of John’s sight. “Nothing.”

“Hm, right. Nothing. You just fell down a flight of stairs and happened to get deep lacerations down your back and sides.”

Sherlock nodded. “Well, kind of.” He drew his legs up against his chest. John just looked at him from his place on the table. With a sigh, he got up slowly as if afraid of scaring Sherlock, and pressed a long kiss to his forehead. Sherlock let his eyes shut and drink in the warmth of John and his kiss. He looked up only when John withdrew.

“You slept out here all night?”

“Room felt too small.”

“I’m sure it did after all the time you spent running around,” his voice lacked the anger this time.

Sherlock just nodded. He wasn’t going to tell him he spent more time locked away in small rooms than actually ‘running around.’

“Do you want breakfast?”

Sherlock nodded. “Please.”

John paused. Sherlock never asked nicely for something he saw as mundane. He touched Sherlock’s forehead and cheek, briefly checking for excess warmth. “Are you just being nice because you feel _guilty_?”

“Are you?” Sherlock countered.

John got up and headed to the kitchen. “I have to head to work in a couple hours. I’m sure you’ll be able to amuse yourself.” John looked over when there was no response. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Mh?” Sherlock raised his head from his knees. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.”

 

It took time for them to become comfortable with one another all over again. It wasn’t as easy as stepping back where they left off; they’d both had tough years and needed time to readjust. As much as Sherlock wanted to slip into John’s bed like he had before (and as much as John wanted him to), it felt different, wrong somehow. John didn’t exactly push him away, but didn’t want to pull him too close too fast.

He monitored Sherlock’s back and Sherlock didn’t talk about it. Mary continued spending time with John and Sherlock but didn’t spend the night, like she used to. Sherlock saw how she made him smile, how comfortable he acted around her, how easily he would put his arm around her shoulders. It irritated him.

As Sherlock plopped his head in John’s lap, he realised he was _jealous_ for the first time in his life.

“You had sex with her.”

John’s hand stilled in his curls. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. It shouldn’t.”

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock shimmied closer instead of responding. John pulled the blanket up over Sherlock’s shoulder then continued stroking his hair. Sherlock stayed still for a long time before slipping his hand under his head and touched the inside of John’s leg. John barely jumped until Sherlock slid his hand further up. John sat up straighter. He grasped Sherlock’s wrist before he got any closer.

“What are you doing?” John’s voice sounded much higher than normal.

“Missed you,” Sherlock mumbled, letting his fingers rub against the inseam of his trousers.

“I missed you too. Stop that.” He pulled Sherlock’s hand back to Sherlock’s front.

“But you want to.”

“No, you think I want to. Stop.” John laced his fingers between Sherlock’s just to keep his hand from continuing to wander. “You talk about my past relationship with Mary then go on to do this?” He kept his grip strong on the squirming fingers. “Sherlock, you’re…you’re jealous.”

He just hummed in response.

“What are you going to do? Play the part of my doting girlfriend?” John hadn’t meant to prod him in such a way, but he needed Sherlock’s full attention. “You don’t want that. _I_ don’t want that. You’re not her. You could never be compared to her.”

“Then what do you want me to do?” Sherlock pushed himself up for this conversation. John finally let go of his hand so Sherlock could pull the blanket over his shoulders.

“I want you to be you.”

Sherlock pulled his knees up between them to warm his toes under John’s leg. “I thought about you.”

John chuckled. “I should hope so, in two years.”

“Not often,” Sherlock amended. John looked crestfallen until Sherlock explained further. “The more I thought about you, the more distracted I would get. Couldn’t afford to think about you often, not if I wanted to come back to you in this lifetime.” He wiggled his toes against John’s thigh, contemplating whether or not he should tell him.

“Right.”

“I, uh,” Sherlock found himself _stuttering_. “Thought about you.” He refused to look away from his ankles pressed against the outside of John’s leg.

“I got that,” John tilted his head curiously.

“When I was… I mean, I wanted…you.” Sherlock sighed in frustration. “I mean, your hands. And mouth.” Oh, God, was he _blushing_? As if it couldn’t get any worse. “I wanted more.”

“You thought you’d never get the chance again. Of course you thought you wanted more.”

“Don’t tell me what I think.”

John lowered his gaze with a light sigh.

“You don’t think that irritates me, too?”

“I didn’t say it irritated—“

“I was confident in my sexuality, or rather, lack thereof. I was content being an anomaly, having very little interest in sex. Still hold little interest, but what little interest I have no longer revolves around people that don’t exist, but heavily involves you.”

“Sherlock, you’ve never emotionally connected with anyone. Perhaps that’s what was missing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard it before. Hormone imbalance, just haven’t met the right person—“

“Listen, I’m not trying to tell you something you already know or patronise your identity. I’m trying to tell you sexuality isn’t always a constant. It fluctuates sometimes.”

“After twenty years?”

John shrugged. “Sometimes, yeah. Maybe you just love me that much,” John teased. He tried not to get offended by the resulting look Sherlock gave him. “Either way, it’s fine. _You’re_ fine.” He placed a light hand on Sherlock’s knee on top of the blanket. “You really shouldn’t compare yourself to her either. You two, completely different. Don’t think of it as a void you have to fill because it’s not.”

“That’s good. There is no case interesting enough, no chemical that could get me high enough to let _anyone_ …fuck me.” Sherlock watched the hand on his knee withdraw after a comforting squeeze.

“Wouldn’t want you sacrificing that part of yourself,” John leaned towards Sherlock to catch his gaze. “Besides,” John grinned, “I would much rather you do the buggering.”

Sherlock’s brain may have short circuited for a moment. He looked at John, unsure of how to respond to such an invitation. His mouth opened to respond on no less than three occasions before he managed an uncertain, “Thanks?” He slowly shifted to put himself against John’s side while John laid his arm around his blanket-clad shoulders.

“So, you thought about _me_? While you slept in someone’s bed?” John asked, only somewhat serious.

“Well, their basement. I also did a little more than sleep.”

“Ah, that makes it so much better,” John said sarcastically as he changed the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Note: Some transmen enjoy vaginal sex. In this particular story, I chose to write Sherlock as a transman who does not, just because that is the perspective that is familiar to me.
> 
> Also, on hiatus because my mind has decided not to think about this story because school is a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> This might be a slowly uploaded piece. I'm still trying to figure out a style while writing for this fandom. Truthfully, it seemed easier to write Kylo and Hux, but Sherlock kind of pulled me in. Between work and school starting, it may be a while between uploaded chapters. Hopefully it's worth it.
> 
> Edit: I haven't been writing at all since school started. I have three weeks to write my secret santa fic for the Kylux exchange and finals. Life has been kind of hellish. I have so many more ideas written down for Sherlock, all of them more original than this one, I promise.
> 
> Second edit: School's over. I'm trying so hard to write stuff. I lost half of this story in Word, so I'm re-reading and adding it to my Word doc. I didn't realize I actually had Sherlock as demi to begin with, so I thought I'd edit chapter 12 to write him as asexual (ace), but it looks as though I already accommodated for Sherlock being demi. I'm hoping to add to this story once I update my Word doc, but I'm not making any promises just yet. I haven't been able to write in so long.  
> If I remember correctly, this is my first Sherlock piece, so it has a special place in my heart.


End file.
